


Giving up Hope

by rycbarm123



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Attempted Murder, Depression, F/M, Gen, Helplessness, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Isolation, Murder, Recovery, Starvation, Threats, Torture, dead bodies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:11:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4097002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rycbarm123/pseuds/rycbarm123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When d'Artagnan goes missing, just how far can the others go to get him back? What happens when they have to give up?</p><p>*random updates*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. But Athos said that...

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for after season two, so don't read this if you have not seen it!

CONSTANCE 

Why isn't he back yet? She wondered, casting another precious glance outside the window of the Queen's private chambers. Athos said that...

“Constance.” A soft voice interrupted her constant worrying. She looked up, remembering where she was, which just so happened to be in the presence of her majesty, Anne of Austria, Queen of France and mother to the Dauphin. She thanked the stars no one else was in the room, save the two musketeers on guard outside the door. But what business would musketeers have being in the queen's chambers? She was helping her majesty settle down for the night. 

“Your majesty?” She curtsied, cursing her stupidity. Now is not the time for worrying when you have her majesty to look after.

“I know you are worried about your husband...” Anne began, hesitating to say more. 

Constance looked down, that's an understatement. 

“But we must push through these things. I have been in this very situation, and it does not help to worry about it.” Anne tried to console her. Constance looked up, and stopped curtsying. 

“Your majesty, he has been gone for almost three weeks, with no contact. What am I supposed to do? Louis was not gone for this long, and I understand that you are far more important that I, but it still hurts, knowing that he could be-” She choked off hysterically, unable to finish her thought. “I apologize for the outburst your majesty. It will not happen again.”

Anne walked across her room, grasping her confidante's hands with her own. “You have nothing to apologize for. Your husband is missing. And while I may be important to France, you are important to me. I want all of my loyal subjects to be happy, and you are not so. I would say go to the Garrison and check again but that would bring you only more despair if you find he has not returned.” She released her hold, but walked them over to a sofa, which they both sat. “What were the details of this mission d'Artagnan had been sent on?”

Constance swallowed. “He was sent by Athos to deliver a message to a comte just outside of Paris, maybe a two day ride if he was riding slow, and invite him to the celebration the King will be throwing in honor of the Dauphin's birthday, and had five days to complete his mission.” She closed her eyes, racking her brain for all the information Athos had shared with her a week prior. “When he did not return, Athos sent out a search party of two to see if had even made it to his destination. The comte had confirmed that d'Artagnan had been there, and left almost immediately after handing over the invitation two days prior. That was two weeks ago.”

“So D'Artagnan has been missing for two weeks?” Anne asked, slightly lost.

“Two and a half.”Constance corrected. “The comte confirmed he got there, and that leaves us with the assumption that he disappeared on the way back. Athos sent out the first search party three days after his deadline to return home. That was about a week ago.”

“Why can't he send out any more?” Anne inquired.

“There is apparently a sort of fixed number of days and times times that you can send out a search party without decreeing the person dead.”Constance sighed. “He hits the deadline in a week and a half.”

“They only get a month?”

Constance nodded. “If a fully trained musketeer goes missing with no sort of contact then it has to be for a good reason. Porthos was telling me that d'Artagnan has the tendency to finish his missions in haste, making everyone else seem very lazy in comparison. He would be back right now if he were alive.” She added softly, tears threatening to roll down her face. 

“Don't say that. You mustn’t give up hope.” The Queen grasped her hands again. “What does Athos think of the matter?”

Constance looked down at her hands, being held gently in her majesty’s grasp. “I do not know, my lady. I am scared to ask.”

“Maybe, just maybe, he can help.” Anne advised. “Go.”

Constance left the room with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a curtsey for her best friend.

ATHOS 

“Has anyone even told Aramis yet?” Porthos asked. They were in Treville's- no, his- office, late at night, almost three weeks after their brother from Gascony had gone missing. 

Athos looked up from the dreaded sheet of paper sitting carelessly on his desk:

Name~ Charles d'Artagnan  
Current Status~ Missing in Action, presumed dead

Signature from Captain confirming death~_______________.

All that was left now was for him to sign it. “Repeat that?” He asked his second in command.

Porthos shifted his weight to his other foot impatiently. “Has anyone even told Aramis that d'Artagnan is missing?”

Athos frowned, looking back at the paper. He could have sworn that he had someone tell Aramis, but now that he started actually thinking about it... “I don't... I don't think so.”

Porthos growled. “Why not? D'Artagnan is his younger brother, he deserves to know!” 

Athos pushed back his chair and stood up. “Let's not bother him with his priesthood. We went there once, remember how well that turned out?”

“We were trying to recruit him for a war against his homeland, that mission was doomed from the start!” Porthos cried, throwing his hands in the air exasperatedly. He then walked up to the desk and put both hands on it. “This is different. This is about our little brother, his little brother, missing. He would like to know, and is he somehow finds out, and NOT from us, we're dead.” 

“I know. I know!” Athos ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “But what if this was all for nothing? All of this worrying, all these extra gray hairs? What if-”

“What if d'Artagnan left the musketeers on purpose? Is that what you are trying to say? Vanished into thin air, without telling us? Or Constance, for that matter?” Porthos snapped. “Get your head out of the bloody clouds Athos! The boy has worked too damn hard to earn his commission from the king and build a respectable life here to just give it all up! You think he would just go home?”

“Has anyone even checked Gascony?” A new voice asked quietly after managing to enter the room without them noticing. 

“Constance.” Porthos greeted, before crossing the room to give her a hug. 

“I did not hear you enter, Madame. I apologize.” Athos said. 

After pulling away from Porthos' hug, Constance said, “It's fine. Really. But have you?” After seeing their confused looks, added, “Sent anyone to check his home? Well, former home?”

“Yes, Madame. That was the second search party. No one has seen him since he left to go with his father to petition the King. Apparently, a few were surprised to hear he was still alive.” Athos almost smiled. 

“You can stop with all of the 'madam'ing, Athos. I might not even be married anymore.” Her voice broke. 

This time he crossed the room to hug her. “We will get him back, I promise.” He tried to sooth, gently patting her head.

“But what if there is nothing left to retrieve?” She wailed, tears running freely down her face. “He might be burned down to a crisp, not even there anymore! Just a thought, a memory now.” 

Athos pulled away. “We will have none of that talk in the Garrison, Madame. You are worried, and I understand that, but that sort of talk is not needed here.” He said sternly. Then, after taking in her heart breaking expression, Athos led her to his chair behind the desk, and said- “Porthos, fetch me some wine from my personal cabinet. I have a feeling we are going to need it.”

“Your personal cabinet is locked.” Porthos deadpanned.

“That never stopped you before.” Athos glanced at his friend with a ghost smile on his face.

“Most o' the time it was d'Artagnan who took from your cabinet!” Porthos protested.

“I am well aware of that fact, but who taught him the skills of lock picking in the first place? Hmm? Who thought it was a good idea to send him because, and I quote, 'he won't get that mad at you because he adores you too much and you have puppy dog eyes that no one can resist?'” Athos gave him a tiny smirk, knowing he had won.

“Hey, that last one was all Aramis!” Porthos held up his hands in a gesture of peace.

“Go.” Athos ordered with an actual smile on his face.


	2. Can I stay in his room?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos feels really guilty about not finding d'Artagnan, and Constance ends up a little drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who have left kudos, commented, and/or bookmarked this story! The next chapter should be up soon.

*Constance*

“Where do you think he is, really?” She asked after Porthos had closed the door. 

“I do not know, madam. If I had my way, I would send out every musketeer and have them comb every damn inch of France,” Athos sighed bitterly. 

“What if...” Constance started, then shook her head. 

“What? What if what? Any and all ideas and theories are welcomed here,” Athos assured her quickly. When she didn't respond, he put a gloved hand on her shoulder. “You will not sound stupid. We want to find him too.” Just tell me.

“What if he isn't in the country anymore?” She quickly spoke, looking up at the captain of the musketeers. “What if the Spanish took him?”

Athos stilled. He had already thought about that. “I do not know what we would do then. We are already at war... but to have taken a musketeer in France would have been very risky for them. They would have had to come into the borders, near the capital to capture him. I am not writing the theory off, hell, I've thought of that too, but...” he trailed off, not knowing how to finish. Constance was already shaking her head.

“No, I mean, yes, but what if they already had agents posted here, waiting for a musketeer or someone of importance to the king, to pass through so they could try and use him as a bargaining chip?” She asked, gears whirring around in her head. 

Athos frowned, shaking his head. “No, that wouldn't even be a good plan.” After seeing Constance's crestfallen face, he added, “But I think you are on the right track. I think there was already some Spanish spy in France, waiting for something like that to happen. You are on to something, madame.” He kissed her forehead. 

Naturally, Porthos chose that moment to walk back in. “Oh, I see how it is.” He winked at Constance, setting the alcohol and three glasses down on a tray table next to Athos' desk. “Be glad d'Artagnan wasn't here to see that, you might not even be standing anymore Athos.”

“Oh, you mean like you are when you sneak into my personal cabinet?” Athos playfully retorted. 

Porthos replied with, “No my friend, I believe that would be you.” All three of them started laughing, knowing how untrue that statement was. 

After a few seconds of laughter, it died down as quickly as it came. 

“I think that was the first time I've laughed in almost three weeks,” Constance spoke. The two men nodded in agreement.

“Now what was Constance on to?” Porthos questioned, and started pouring the drinks, handing one to each of them, before pouring one for himself. 

“She was thinking that there were Spanish agents waiting in Paris for something to happen.” Athos took a deep breath, and turned to Constance. “I think you were right about that. There were people stationed in or just outside Paris, waiting for something to happen. But, I do not think that they were waiting for d'Artagnan in particular.” Athos took a small sip from his drink, savouring the taste. “I think that they were waiting for someone like that, but here is where our theories differ. I think that they are going to use him to get information about the regiment.” He gestured to himself and Porthos. “We are soldiers, mere pawns to the king. Anyone and everyone can be replaced in a blink of an eye, we would not be used as bait for anyone, as we are not very important to him. You could set up another attack like Savoy, but guess what? There are always more soldiers waiting in line.” 

“You mean they would use him to get information like battle tactics, our numbers, strengths, and weaknesses?” Porthos asked, apparently not having heard the last part of Athos' speech. “Information that could help them win this war?”

“Well why not? Wouldn't we do that too, given the chance?” Athos countered, clearing a space of his desk off so he could set his drink down.

“But we don't know anyone that actually speaks Spanish or knows anything about the country!” Constance protested tipsily, already into her second glass. 

Athos frowned. “You work for the Queen, Constance. She is Spanish, is she not?” He turned to Porthos. “What bottle did you grab?” Porthos handed him the bottle, and he sighed. “Porthos, this is the good stuff. The really, really good stuff. And our friend Constance here, does not have the stomach of a soldier.” He glared at his second in command before setting the bottle down, disarming Constance of her cup, and setting it next to his. “Madame, perhaps you should go to bed. It is very late, and a respectable lady such as yourself should not be out at this hour. I will escort you back to the palace, if you so wish.” 

Constance shook her head, and instantly regretted it with the nausea and dizziness it brought her. If she hadn't been sitting down, she would have fallen over. After a few seconds, she asked in a small voice, “May I stay in his room tonight?”

The musketeers in the room turned to stone. No one had been in there since his disappearance. But this was Constance... d'Artagnan's wife. The woman that he would tear the world apart for, and if anyone had the right to go into his room it would be her. 

Athos was the first one to unfreeze. “Of course. It's just that no one has been into his room since-”

“-he disappeared.” Porthos finished. 

Constance nodded, showing she understood. “I just... don't want to go back into the palace like this.” 

Porthos nodded. “Well, you could be in a better state than this, in all honesty.”

Athos aimed a well-placed elbow to his comrade's ribs, and upon hearing the grunt, rewarded himself with a smile. “Porthos will unlock the door for you, Constance. I shall write a letter to the Queen, informing her why you will not be present in court tomorrow morning.”

Porthos was mouthing to him, “I don't have the keys.”

“Why will I not be in court tomorrow?” Constance asked, slurring her words slightly. But whether it was from the alcohol or her exhaustion, Athos couldn't decide. He mentally kicked himself, berating and hating himself for not sending for her and at least trying to make sure she was okay. With his new duties as Captain of the Musketeers, the war with Spain, and worrying himself sick with d'Artagnan, he had all but forgotten about his best friend's wife. She must have gotten just as much sleep as he and Porthos, which is to say, not much at all. 

“Because you need the sleep, Constance.” Porthos said softly. He looked back at Athos and mouthed 'keys' again. “Maybe being in his room will help you with that. We know you haven't been getting much sleep.”

She looked up at the large man, confusion evident in her face. “How? I have been trying every trick in the book on how to not look tired.”

Athos gently grasped her arm and helped her stand. “We haven't been getting much sleep either.” He confessed. He never would have said that in front of his men, but here, where no one but two highly valued friends could see or hear him, he was fine with admitting it. 

Constance looked guilty. “Sorry.”

“You 'ave nothing to apologize for, Constance.” Porthos said firmly, but took her hand to lead her out of the room gently. He looked at Athos with his eyebrows raised. “I need the keys, Athos.” 

Athos muttered something under his breath about where Porthos could stick the keys, but handed them over nonetheless. 

Porthos grinned, “Nah, I wouldn't stick the keys there. You're thinking about Aramis, Athos.”

Athos snorted in response. “Get out of here.”

The pair ducked out of the room.

*Athos*

He sat himself down at his desk with a sigh, and pulled out the necessary writing materials. When Porthos came back a few minutes later, the Captain’s seal was hardening on the paper. 

“I need you to do one last thing for me tonight, if you are up for it.” He requested, gently fanning the letter through the air to get the wax to dry quicker. 

Porthos raised an eyebrow incredulously. “You want me to take that up to the castle for you? Really?” 

“No, I want you to wake Pierre so he can take the letter up to the castle for me. And when you return, I would like to discuss how on Earth we are going to tell Aramis that d'Artagnan is missing.”

Porthos quickly exited the room with the letter clasped in his hand.


	3. Do you really want the details?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance and Porthos have a little "bonding time", you get an insight into the Queen's mind, and get to see a little bit of Aramis. D'Artagnan is not yet in this story, sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually put these in the beginning, but there are mentions of attempted rape, and depression, and I didn't want for it to trigger anything. And I am going to vacation until the 21st, and am not yet done with the next chapter. I hope to work on it while I am away, but it may be a while before the next one. Sorry in advanced! Thank you for all of the kudos!

*Porthos*

"All right, Constance, just stay here a moment, okay?" Porthos made sure Constance had her footing alright before gently letting go of her arm so that he could unlock d'Artagnan's door.

"Okay," Constance murmured, hanging on to the railing behind her.

"Here." He gently took her arm again (like the gentleman that he was), and led her into the room. The first thing that hit his nose was the stench, like old body odor. D'Artagnan must not have washed one of his spare shirts before he went on the mission. He was going to talk to him about that when he returned. "Sorry about the smell." He started lighting some candles so they could actually see the room.

Constance huffed. "It ain't your fault. It's his. I plan on talking to him when he returns about the upkeep of his room." She looked around, seeing all of the clutter that d'Artagnan had somehow managed to accumulate.

Porthos chuckled. "You too, huh? I get the feeling there is going to be a line."

She gave him a loopy grin in response.

"You even have any clothes in here, Constance?" Porthos asked, wrinkling his brow.

"It's my husbands room Porthos. Do you really want any more details?" She raised an eyebrow at the kindhearted musketeer in front of her. When she had first met him, he intimidated her, she wasn't going to lie. But now that she knew him, he was a big softie at heart. He'd even saved her life once, when she was off on some foolish errand for her former husband. It was a three day journey, and she was almost half a day's ride from home when out of nowhere she was attacked by a couple of drunk red guards. She thought she was honestly about to die or get raped and left for dead when Porthos showed up, saving her life. She never forgot that, and he wouldn't even let her say thanks more than once. When she had tried to, he'd waved it away, but had escorted her home and even stayed for a half hour to make sure she was actually okay.

"I suppose not." Porthos turned slightly darker. He loved d'Artagnan and Constance, but really didn't want to think about them doing that. "Need any help with anything?"

She shook her head. "No, thank you, though." She smiled at him kindly, and Porthos took that as his cue to leave.

When he walked back into Athos' office, he was greeted by, "I need you to do one last thing for me tonight, if you are up for it." He was waving the letter for the Queen gently through the air.

Porthos raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "You want me to take that up to the castle for you? Really?"

Athos looked up at him. "No, I want you to wake Pierre so he can take the letter up to the castle for me. And when you return, I would like to discuss how on Earth we are going to tell Aramis that d'Artagnan is missing."

Athos handed him the letter, and he quickly left to wake Pierre. Needless to say, Pierre wasn't impressed with his request, but got up to complete the task anyways.

When Porthos returned to the office a few minutes later, he was fully prepared to launch into an elaborate conversation on how the hell they were going to tell Aramis without him blowing up in their faces. Athos, or rather his body, had a different plan. When Porthos walked into the room, he saw him sitting in his chair, sleeping in the most uncomfortable position known to man. Porthos grinned fondly, shaking his head, and walked over to where his captain was fast asleep.

"Come on, Athos." He called softly, shaking his shoulder. "You don't need a sore back in the morning."

Athos grumbled in response, and stirred slightly, but didn't actually wake up.

"Oi, lazy ass, get up." Porthos shook his shoulder harder. "Athos. Get up before I drag you to your bloody bed so help me."

Athos, for his part, cracked open his eyes and told his friend to "sod off".

Porthos sighed. "All right then, you asked for it." He scooped up his commanding officer and had every intention of taking him to his room, but Athos was having none of it. He growled and flung himself out of Porthos' arms, hitting his head on his desk, and knocked himself out. Porthos sighed. "Well that makes my job easier." He resumed his original plan after making sure Athos didn't have a concussion.

**Morning**Anne**

Her Majesty groggily opened her eyes, and sat up in bed. She was in her private chambers, and away from her husband for the time being, since he had a political meeting of some kind that lasted throughout the night. She supposed that he had retired to his own bedchambers to sleep. She sighed, and looked around her room. It was by no means 'plain' or 'simple'. She had never known such a life. Anne slipped out of bed and began pacing the room, stopping to stare blankly at the sunlight streaming through the window and bouncing off her floor, which currently felt very cold to her bare feet.

It was times like these, in the quiet and stillness of the morning, with the sun shining through the pale gold curtains and she was sure she wasn't going to get caught, when she allowed herself to think of him. Aramis. The musketeer she could have loved in another life. He loved her, and she him. But their love was complicated, and not to mention forbidden and illegal. And then there was the fact that Aramis wasn't even a musketeer anymore. Anne suddenly felt guilty, knowing that she was the reason he had left.

She was pulled out of her disturbing thoughts by a knock on her door. "Come in," Anne called, her voice rough with sleep and disuse.

The door was opened, and a palace messenger stepped inside, a young boy, maybe fifteen, almost shaking in his boots. He bowed very low to the ground. Anne raised her eyebrows, but didn't comment. Sometimes, she wished this wasn't her life, she wished she could be with and love Ara-

"Your majesty." The boy started. "This arrived for you last night. We didn't wake you up because of the late hour."

Anne gestured for him to come closer, "Give it to me."

He came closer and handed it to her. "Thank you." Her voice took on a softer tone. With another bow, he slipped out of her room, closing the door behind him.

Her mind was spinning. Was everything alright? Have they found d'Artagnan? Has Aramis returned? How is Constance?

Ah. She read through it, Athos explaining exactly why Constance would not see her today. Anne's eyes softened. She had realized d'Artagnan's absence had affected her friend, but hadn't realized just how much Constance was withholding from her. Constance was strong, and Anne admired her for it.

Anne sat down on the cold floor in a secluded corner of her room, keeping the doors closed, but her mind open. What could she do to help her friend? She was the Queen of France, she should be able to have a stronger voice with her husband, shouldn't she? Her relationship with him had become strained since the war with Spain, but she had tried so hard to hide it from the prying eyes of the public, both of them having a mutual, unspoken agreement to not their marital strain show for their appearances to the common folk. When she and Louis talked, more often than not it ended in shouting and a lot of tears. Nowadays she had kept her thoughts to herself, rarely speaking, and when she had, it was mainly towards Constance.

Anne pulled her knees up to her chest, keeping her face neutral. She can't afford to be weak. She had to be strong. She mustn't think about him. This time, it was not Aramis' face she was keeping at bay, it was Rochefort's. If she was left alone with her thoughts for too long, this is the road that they would take. One of misery, fright, and terror. One where she, her lover, and her child were almost killed because of that man. That complete, utter bastard! Thinking that he could get away with it when the inseparables where on the case. Even if some of his accusations were true. She thanked God and the Musketeers that he had not won. Anne smiled, breaking free of her neutral mask.

A couple of minutes later, she called her servants into the room, ready to face another day.

*Aramis*

Get up. Pray. Eat.

Right now, Aramis was supposed to be praying, but instead, he wanted to shoot something. This was how every day his life had started ever since he left the musketeer regiment. How every boring day had started. Sure he had been content with it, and even accepted it for about a week... until a week passed into a month, and a month had passed into six.

Six months. He had been living without his brothers in arms for six months. He had been waking up in a warm bed without a woman next to him for six months. Hadn't carried any sort of lethal weapon, or stitched any wounds, calmed down Porthos, or even laughed at a tavern with his brothers after a particularly dangerous mission... Hadn't seen Anne, or his son...

He wasn't even Aramis anymore. He was Rene. Brother Rene. No evidence of the Musketeer he once was remained, except for the leather uniform stored carefully in an old wooden trunk at the foot of his bed and of course his pride.

He had tried so hard to press down the ache in his soul. He had no idea if his friends were all still alive and well... It was driving him mad. He had tried to distract himself, immerse himself in Gods' word. But it hadn't worked for the past six months, and it wasn't about to start magically working today.

They came once. His brothers. Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan. They came to recruit him in a war against Spain. He had wanted to go... God knows he did. He knew he would never truly be happy here... but he had to try. So he turned them away.

He made a promise. Not only to himself, but to God. He vowed to give himself over to him, and serve him, always. But if this was truly his calling, why did he feel so empty inside?

He had lost part of himself after Savoy, and it took him a couple of months of begging, pleading, and endless support and friendship from Porthos and Athos to regain what he lost. By the time d'Artagnan came along, everything was normal again. Mostly. There was always that demon lurking in the shadows, waiting for a moment of weakness so it could pounce on him and take him by surprise. But then, he had three brothers who supported him and helped him chased that demon away.

But now that he didn't have them at his side at all times, he was losing that part of himself again, and the demon was winning. He didn't know how to feel. It got to the point of where he didn't know if he could feel anymore. And it scared him.

Athos and Porthos didn't come back, but d'Artagnan did... even if it was only one other time.

But that was about four weeks ago, to catch him up on current events in Paris, and update him on their brothers. D'Artagnan had promised him, however, that he would stop by again after he was done with his mission, which should have only taken him about five days.

That thought jolted Aramis out of his kneeling position. D'Artagnan was never one to break promises, or run over his deadlines.

Had something happened to him? Was he gravely wounded? Or dead? Aramis suddenly had hundreds of scenarios running through his head. Then he chided himself. If something was amiss with d'Artagnan, Athos or Porthos would have sent word. That thought relaxed him. They were his brothers, and brothers do not abandon each other.

All for one, and one for all, after all, Aramis grinned, remembering all of the times they had said that, and all the memories he had made along the way. He was about to kneel again to resume his prayers when a gong sounded through the monastery.

Ah, breakfast time at last.


	4. Aramis has to sew, and then he finally knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis is finally told, and needless to say, isn't happy that he wasn't told IMMEDIATELY.

*Constance*  
When she awoke the next morning, the first thing she noticed was d'Artagnan. Or rather, the absence of him. Constance knew, in her heart, that he was still gone. But if she kept her eyes closed, she could almost imagine him snuggled up next to her, his long hair tickling the back of her neck. She could almost feel his breath there, too, warm and light with sleep.

But then the illusion was shattered by two familiar voices.

"Should we wake her?" one whispered.

"You know she will smack us into next week if we leave her out of this," the other warned, also whispering.

Constance opened her eyes, blinking against the intruding light. When her eyes focused, she saw Porthos and Athos arguing quietly at the foot of d'Artagnan's bed, debating of whether or not to wake her. Constance sat up, drawing the attention of the two men.

"Leave me out of what?" she asked, her voice taking on a dangerous tone.

Athos cleared his throat. "We still have one final search party to send out to try and find d'Artagnan, and not a lot of time left to find him. We also need to tell Aramis that he is missing, as he has not yet been informed." Athos looked guilty.

Constance sprang out of bed, apparently immune to hangovers. "Are you saying that no one has told Aramis yet?!"

Athos backed up slightly, out of her arm's reach. "I thought that I did, madame. However, it was pointed out to me last night by Porthos that I had not."

Constance took two steps forward and slapped him. "How could you?! Your brother, Aramis, does not even know that my husband, one of his best friends is missing?"

Athos suddenly felt sympathy for Aramis. He wasn't exaggerating when he was telling them of the strength of Constance's slaps. "No, but this is where you come in."

Constance raised an eyebrow. "Me?"

Porthos spoke this time. "Yes. See, we need to let Aramis know without him blowing up on us, so just sending a letter to him wouldn't really be the best idea. And one of us showing up to tell him would probably resort in him getting kicked out of the monastery."

Curiosity got the better of her. "Why?"

"Murder is frowned upon in church." Athos said, the side of the mouth twitching.

Constance sighed. "So you want me to go and bring him back here?"

"Please." Athos said, though it didn't sound like a request. "However, if you do not want to, we could always send a recruit. But as I said a second ago, murder is frowned upon in a church building."

"So you think if you send me he won't kill me?" She questioned.

"Right." Porthos tried to give her a reassuring grin.

She gave in. "All right. When do I leave?"

Athos glanced out of the window. "Well, can you manage to be out of here within the hour?"

Constance nodded, determined. "Yes. What about my duties at the palace? Will the Queen excuse me for a couple of days?"

Athos said, "I'm sure that we can work something out. I will have someone deliver a message asking if you can have a few more days off."

"But I also need to get my traveling cloak."

Athos nodded. "Consider it done. I can send for it along with the letter. Do you need any sort of riding clothes?"

She looked past him, to a small trunk at the foot of the bed. "I think I'm covered."

Porthos frowned. "Impersonating a musketeer could get you hanged."

Constance scoffed. "I know. Which is why I've got my own riding clothes that I made for myself in there."

He inclined his head. "I apologize Madame, and if you'll excuse me for asking... but why do you have riding clothes in there?"

"When one's husband is a Musketeer, and they work in the service of her majesty, said person should be prepared for anything and everything." She grinned, and pointed to the door. "Out, the pair of ya. Athos, just leave the cloak hanging on the railing out there." With a mock bow from each of them, they left the room, leaving her to get dressed and pack.

When she came down, she had her traveling cloak fastened at her neck, her hair was tied back so it wouldn't come undone, and one of d'Artagnan's old traveling bags slung over her shoulder. She noticed she was getting stared at as she came down the stairs into the courtyard by quite a few recruits as who were not yet used to seeing a lady in the Garrison.

"What are you looking at?" Porthos snapped at them, who was waiting for her down there. "Madame d'Artagnan," he emphasized, "is off limits to all of ya. She's married to-"

"The missing one?" one of the recruits hollered.

Constance fixed a glare at him, finally reaching the bottom. She walked over and stood beside Porthos, crossing her arms across her chest. "Yes, I am. Do you have anything else to say? Or are you going to leave me be now?"

Another recruit scoffed. "We don't take orders from a woman!"

"Then maybe you will take them from me." Athos had arrived with a horse from the Garrison stables. "Constance is a personal friend of Porthos, d'Artagnan, Aramis, and I and can put all of you to your knees in a sword fight. You are to obey her every command. Treat her like you would treat her husband – with respect. Now get out of my sight. Go spar, drink, I don't care, but leave, and be back to report for duty in an hour. Dismissed." At his glare, they all scampered off in different directions, like rats running from a light source.

Constance let out a breath she wasn't aware she had been holding, "Thank you, Athos. Is he for my journey?" She motioned towards the horse.

Athos tipped his hat. "She is. Her name is Buttercup."

Constance moved forward to stroke Buttercup's nose, but looked to Athos for permission first. With another small incline from his head, she started. Horse noses were softer than she remembered.

"So female horses can be used by the Musketeers but not female humans? That hardly seems fair." Constance half-teased.

"If I had my way, Madame, you would have been commissioned right alongside d'Artagnan. If any woman deserves it, it's you."

She snorted. "Don't make me get all high headed about my non-existent sword abilities."

Porthos stood next to her, and was making the final adjustments to Buttercup's saddle. "You haven't seen what the recruits call talent, Constance. And your forms are fine."

She looked mortified. "You've seen me practice?!"

Athos gave her 'the stare'. "Who do you think told d'Artagnan about that alleyway where you two used to practice?"

She opened her mouth... then closed it again, blushing. "I suppose I thought he found it by himself?"

Porthos grinned. "What, when he was all new to Paris? Nah." Then he gestured towards Buttercup. "Time to head out. Are you sure you are okay with doing this?"

"I'm tempted to smack you right now, Porthos. Athos obviously cannot send out any musketeers for fear they might not come back. I can do this." She gave both of them a small smile before hoisting herself onto the horse.

Athos grabbed the reins before she could leave. "All right, just as a precaution, we are going to go through a checklist. You have food?"

"Yes. Cheese, bread, and dried berries. More than enough to get me to the monastery."

"Water skin filled to the brim?" Porthos injected.

"Yes. And d'Artagnan taught me how to look for nearby streams and rivers when I am in the woods."

"Medical supplies?" they said at the same time.

Constance rolled her eyes. "Aramis will be glad to know he rubbed off on you two. Yes, I do. He also rubbed off on d'Artagnan."

"Well actually, he rubbed off on d'Artagnan, and d'Artagnan rubbed off on us. Money?"

Constance patted a hidden pocket near her breast. "More than enough. The Queen is too kind to me."

"Concealed weapons?" Porthos half-joked.

Constance gave him a disbelieving look. "I'm married to a musketeer. Yes, I have concealed weapons."

"Spare clothes in case it gets cold or rains?" Athos let go of her reigns, and she slowly started inching towards the gates.

"Yes, mum. Now may I go piss off Aramis?" She politely asked.

"Tell him we leave as soon as you return, with or without him. But we presume he will want to come. One last thing." Athos added. "Do you need anything for the hangover?"

"Nope. Believe it or not, I can hold my liquor. Who do you think taught d'Artagnan?" And with that, she kicked the horses' side, sending them galloping down the road, leaving two musketeers to stare after her in wonder.

Porthos looked at Athos. "I thought that was us?"

Athos shrugged. "Me too."

*Aramis*

Another boring start to another boring day. Aramis was getting restless, and he knew it. He was even called out by the head abbot for not staying still during prayers. Usually, he had to be the one to reprimand, this time, he was the reprimanded. It was not a promising start to another day.

"Brother Rene!" the head Abbot called out. "I wish to speak with you after the sermon. Do not be tardy."

Aramis bowed his head it what he hoped was submission, but mentally, he was saying every curse word that he could think of. In Spanish, no less.

After the sermon, when everyone else had left, he had went up to talk to the Abbot.

"What troubles you, Brother Rene?" he asked, not unkindly.

Aramis sighed. "I used to be a soldier, a musketeer."

"Yes. We all know of your dark and sinful past," he said solemnly.

"I am just worried about my brothers. I do not know if they are alive and well, or if they are hurt or dead. I was a medic, for my team. I do not know how they are faring without me there," he confessed. "It feels like..."

"It feels like?" the Abbot prompted.

"It feels like torture. Like it is tearing its way through my soul, slowly but surely. I just feel so... empty without them. They were my brothers, my family... my life. I do not think I am cut out to be a monk," he whispered, his final confession now out in the open.

"Father!" One of the monks approached. "There is a woman here, badly injured, asking to see an Aramis." Aramis and the Abbot looked at each other. "I have told her there is no Aramis here," the monk continued, "but she is very insistent."

"If she was injured, then the least we can do is treat her," Aramis injected. "I have some skills that I may be able to use," he glanced at the Abbot. "With permission, of course."

The Abbot nodded. "Go. We will resume this conversation later, Brother."

Aramis bowed his thanks, and nearly ran after the other Monk. Who was it? It couldn't be Anne. Perhaps Milady? Or Constance?

The sight that greeted him was almost funny. He saw three monks trying to move a stubborn Constance into what they called the infirmary.

"Aramis is here! I know he is! I need to speak with him right now, it's important," she was insisting, refusing to budge, despite her hand pressed against her side, already soaked with blood. "No one is treating me but him. So if I die, and he hears about it, on your own heads be it," she warned.

"Constance, why do you trouble my brothers so much?" Aramis asked, finally arriving on the scene, very gleeful to see his friend. "But what on Earth happened to you?"

When she saw him, she all but knocked him off his feet with the impact of her hug. Aramis hugged her back on instinct, and not really caring at the moment if it got him in trouble later.

"Hey, it's okay. I've got you." He held her at arm's length, and glanced at her side. "Now that I am here, will you go to the sick bay?"

She nodded, and he noticed with alarm that she was shaking like a leaf, "Yes. But there are a couple of things we need to discuss." She didn't meet his eyes after that.

So the duo walked – well, Aramis walked, and Constance was being supported by him – to the sick bay in silence. Constance was refusing to say anything, and actually seemed a little scared. Now that he was getting a better look at her, he realized just how bad off she was.

When they arrived in the sick bay, he sat her down on a simple wooden sofa, and went to fetch what meager healing supplies the Monks kept.

"What happened to you?" he asked finally.

Constance stripped down into her undergarments, and laid down so Aramis could stitch the wound in her side. She didn't really care if he saw her chest or not, she knew he wouldn't tease her about it later. "Robbers. They took everything that I had." She blinked, trying to keep a hold of consciousness. "My bag, my cloak... even my wedding ring." She was on the brink of losing it. "That was the last thing I had of him too. At least I was able to get away on Buttercup..."

Aramis froze with the needle a centimeter above her skin. "What do you mean, the last thing you had of him?"

"Can I tell you when you aren't about to sew me up?" Constance requested. With her disheveled look, her hair a mess, dirt-streaked face, and clothes almost in tatters, he couldn't say no.

Aramis nodded curtly. "If you insist. This will hurt, do you want something to bite down on?"

She shook her head. "Just get it over with. The sooner I can put a shirt back on, the better."

He almost chuckled. "All right."

For the most part, Constance was a good patient. The part that wasn't so good were the curse words muttered under her breath each time he pulled another stitch through her skin.

When he was through, her wound was clean, and she had one of Aramis' personal outfits on, he finally got to ask, "What did you mean? When you said that was the last thing you have of him? I assume you meant d'Artagnan?" He gave her a helping hand so she could sit up, wincing as she did so.

She nodded. "Yeah."

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

She didn't, but stared off into a far corner of the room, hands clenched into fists.

"Constance." He snapped his fingers, hoping to bring her back to reality. When that didn't work, he lightly shook her shoulder, trying to be mindful of her wound, and thankfully, it worked.

"Sorry, I'm just thinking about how on Earth to explain this to you without you getting mad at me." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. When it was obvious she had his attention, Constance sighed.

Aramis had all sorts of theories running through his head again. Kidnapped? Dead? Missing?

"He's-he's missing," she explained.

Aramis raised an eyebrow, still waiting for her to proceed. "But when you say missing, how long are you talking about? Three, four days?"

Constance went pale. He assumed Porthos and Athos would tell him immediately. And under normal circumstances, they would have. She hesitated, knowing it was about to get really bad. Maybe she should have let Porthos and Athos send a recruit after all. "No. More like almost three weeks."

His face clouded up with anger, and his vision turned red. He wanted to punch the nearest thing in sight, which happened to be Constance. But he couldn't do that. Aramis stood up, swearing like a sailor at the top of his lungs and kicking down anything that was currently standing up, like the tray table that held all of the meager medical supplies the monks possessed and the stool he was sitting on moments ago.

Constance tried to calm him down. "Aramis please, they've both had a lot on their minds. They-they didn't mean to keep it from you!" At his glare, however, she shut up. Angry Aramis was no one's friend, and she could see why Athos and Porthos didn't want to be the one to let him know. After what seemed like an hour, he calmed down enough to listen to her explanations, but he still wore an ugly glare that didn't compliment his features.

"Why didn't they tell me sooner?!" he demanded, still seething. "Why didn't you tell me, for that matter?"

Constance tried her best to not look terrified at the ex-musketeer's rage. "They've been really busy, with the war and their own demons. And I have been working with the Queen on how to-" She shut up when she realized she wasn't helping. "I'm sorry. We all are."

Aramis sighed, anger receding slightly. "I'm the one that should be apologizing, Madame. I am not in the best mood right now." After a few seconds of silence, he was as calm as he was going to get. "Why did you really come?"

"D'Artagnan does not have much more time for us to find him, because he has been gone for almost a month, due to the system that they operate, which only gives him a month to be found."

Aramis nodded, "I am familiar with the system. Is that why you came? To recruit me to go find him?"

Constance looked down. "You don't want to go."

"On the contrary Madame, I am more than ready to leave this life behind me." He gave a wide smile when her head snapped up and hope filled her eyes. "I've found that being a monk is not the life for me."

She gave him one of the biggest smiles he'd ever seen her wear. The she looked thoughtful. "So am I still in trouble?"

"Oh yes."

"And Porthos and Athos?" She questioned hesitantly.

"Oh yes."

"Even more than me?" She asked.  
He gave her a look that quite clearly said, "Duh."

Aramis escorted her gently up to his room. Forget the guest quarters, when she was wounded, there was no way he was letting other Monks look after her.

After a few minutes of semi-comfortable silence, she asked, "So when are we leaving? I think the Queen gave me the week off, so if I need to, I can wait a little bit.

Aramis glanced outside at the setting sun. "If you are able to, we leave at first light. I shall inform the Abbot of our plan to leave. You may stay in my room tonight, I am going to look after you." He gave her look that didn't leave any room to argue.

As he was headed out of the door, she said, "Aramis?"

He turned.

"It's good to have you back."

Aramis smiled. He wasn't Brother Rene anymore. "Constance, it's good to be back." He shut the door, leaving to find the Abbot one last time.

Aramis was finding out that all of the hallways were empty. He had been wandering around for about ten minutes, trying to find the Abbot, when it turns out he didn't have to.

"Brother Rene!" The Abbot exclaimed, looking mad. "I hear that you have taken the woman into your room?! What is going on?!"

Aramis laughed. "Well, I'm sorry about that. I really am. But we aren't like that. We were never like that. She's married to one of my brothers."

The Abbot was taken back, and mad, "No one here has ever gotten married, it is against our beliefs and-"

"No no no no no, I don't mean brothers at the Monastery, I mean my brothers in Paris. Where my family is. My real, actual family, where my brothers in arms are." Aramis took a deep breath, trying to push his excitement down. "About our conversation earlier today, when I said I wasn't cut out to be a monk...I meant it. I'm a musketeer. One of my brothers, d'Artagnan, is missing. The lady that just came in here, the injured one, her name is Constance. She's his wife, and someone I hold very dear to me. I have to help find d'Artagnan. I have to. So this is me. Leaving. Well, not right now, but later. Probably in the morning, around first light." Aramis beamed, happier than he had been in a long time. He was going home.

The Abbot shook his head with a rueful smile. "I never, ever thought that you would be happy here. I knew, from the moment I saw you, that you were a restless one." This wasn't the way Aramis had expected this conversation to go. "I knew that you would leave us, and our earlier conversation today has proved that." He looked at Aramis solemnly. "I wish you the best, Brother Rene. If you are ever in need to shelter, or are in the area, we shall welcome you back with open arms."

Aramis nodded mutely, almost choking up on the sudden emotion that had struck him. "Thank you. For everything." Unable to say any more, he turned and left the Abbot standing there in the middle of the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first off, I would like to apologize for the REALLY long wait for this chapter. Little later than I had planned, but no matter. It is here now. On the second matter, I cannot believe that I wrote that much! There was a little Constance/Aramis friendship in there, so I hope you enjoyed that. Thank you to Calgarry for beta'ing, as always. And thank you to all of you who have kudos and bookmarked this story! If you have any prompts or suggestions, I will gladly take them.


	5. Should we really leave today?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance and Aramis prepare to leave the monastery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is kind of a filler, just a little bit. I am not yet done with the next chapter, so it still might be a while for the next one to be posted, so I am sorry about that. I think I've tortured you guys long enough on the whereabouts of everybody's favorite Gascon, so I am writing his POV next. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!

*ARAMIS*

He didn't get much sleep last night, to say the least. Between making sure Constance was comfortable, making sure that her injuries weren't giving her any trouble or getting infected, and worrying his mind off about her husband, sleep did not come to him easily that night. When he finally managed to go to sleep, it was almost time to get up and start his day.

He rose with the sun. After double checking to make sure his companion was still asleep, he went to ready the horses for their journey, running into many people he could call friends in the corridors.

He wasn't really surprised that the Monks were out and about, since they usually were up before sunrise to start their daily routine, one that Aramis had gown accustomed to, and one that he wouldn't miss. 

Once he made his way to the stables, he ran into, or almost ran into the young stable boy, Henri, a boy training to be a Monk.

“Mon deiu! I humbly apologize, Henri.” Aramis exclaimed apologetically. 

Henri stepped back to avoid the collision. “No trouble.” He assured Aramis.

“Great. Listen, I need...” Aramis paused. The monastery only housed four horses, and relieving them of half their stock seemed quite rude. Henri waited patiently, looking up at the tall ex-musketeer. “I need a horse, one that will make the journey from here to Paris with no trouble at all, and strong enough to carry two people including supplies. Do we have one that matches that description?”

Henri faltered. “No Monsieur. But the Lady that arrived here yesterday had a horse that you could use.” He looked at Aramis. 

“Show me.” He commanded. 

Henri bowed, and took him to the horse. When Aramis saw who Constance rode here on, he exclaimed in delight, “Buttercup!” He walked up to her and started stroking her nose. “Mon dieu, it's my horse! Those sly little devils.” Aramis laughed, turning to Henri. “Has she been brushed, tacked, and checked for injuries?”

Henri bowed again. “Yes monsieur. I checked her myself.” 

“Good, good. Can you ready her for travel? I plan to leave within the hour.” Aramis instructed.

Again, Henri bowed. “If you were planning on leaving in ten minutes, monsieur, I could have her ready by then.”

“Good.” Aramis repeated. I shall go back into the monastery to pack for my journey.” He clapped Henri on the shoulder and turned to leave.

Henri gathered up his nerve. “So its true?”

Aramis turned back, but kept walking. “What is?”

“That you were a Musketeer, and that now you plan on returning to the life of a soldier.”

Aramis stopped. “Yes, that is true.”

“Why?” Henri asked, his voice almost taking on a whiny tine.

Aramis gave him a basic outline. “One of my brothers, d'Artagnan, is missing. I have to find him.” 

“Do you plan on returning afterwords?” Henri sounded sullen. 

Aramis turned back around, and started heading towards the stable door. “No, I do not. Please have the horse ready by the time I return.”

Henri bowed once more. Rene wasn't leaving of he had a say in it. 

Aramis made his way up to the monastery one last time. It was elegant, and fancy, in its own kind of way. It was made to worship God, so the Monks believed the more details you put in, the better chances you had of your prayers being heard. 

Once he entered, he went to the kitchens to pack some food, and ran into Constance along the way. 

“Constance! It is good to see you out and about, madame.” He gave her a dramatic, sweeping bow.

Constance laughed, then stopped, cursing and moving a hand to her injured side. “Ow.”

Aramis hurried over. “Is it bugging you? Should we wait another day before we leave?”

She gave him a look. “No, we should not. The longer d'Artagnan is missing, the more danger he is in, and the closer the deadline looms. We leave today, as soon as we are ready. I have complete confidence in your stitching skills.” 

Aramis sighed. “I don't want you pulling them out!” 

“Well if I do, its a good thing that I have a physician with me, isn't it?” She retorted sassily.

“I'm not a physician, I'm a medic!” He protested. “There is a difference!”

“I really don't care right now, Aramis. Now where were you headed before I intercepted you?”

“Uh, the kitchens. To gather food for our trip home. Do you have any remaining food from your journey here?” He asked hopefully. “All we have is awful bread, a lot of herbs, and outside we have tiny berries. Oh, and porridge. But we can't really take porridge with us.”

Constance shook her head. “Everything I had was taken from me, including my food. I'm sorry.”

Aramis waved her apology away, “No matter, Madame.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we raid the kitchen of all of it's food?”

She took it, withholding a smile. “All right then. As long as we won't get in trouble.”

He scoffed. “Nonsense. They won't care.”

Together, they started walking towards the kitchen. “Don't we need a bag of some sort to store all the food?”

“They have all we need in the kitchen.” Aramis assured her. After a few seconds of silence, he asked again, “Are you sure you are okay to ride?”

She groaned. “Is this what you were like on missions?”

“Not all the time. Only when someone was hurt.” 

She laughed, and winced again. 

“Something funny?” He could now see the kitchen door. 

“Well, when I was preparing to leave, Athos and Porthos refused to let me ride off without asking if I had medical supplies.” Aramis grinned, and looked down at his shorter friend. “They said that you had rubbed off on d'Artagnan, and d'Artagnan had rubbed off on them.” 

They had reached the kitchen. Aramis pushed open the wooden door, and led her through. “Well, I'm glad that I had rubbed off on someone, at least.”

“This place is tiny.” Were the first words out of Constance's mouth.

“In comparison to what? The palace kitchens? It's bigger than the one you and Bonacieux had.”

She gave a small incline of her head, and leaned up against a counter, closing her eyes. “That is very true.”

Aramis gave her a concerned look, but knew that no matter what he did or said, they were leaving today. “I shall gather up the food we will need. How long did it take you to get here?”

“About half a day's ride, from around mid morning to sunset, when I arrived.” 

“Not long at all.” He was impressed. 

“Yeah, and that's including getting stopped by the bandits. I was riding really hard. Do you think Buttercup should be okay to make the journey again?”

“She should be fine to make the journey. You, on the other hand...”

Her eyes flashed open. “We are leaving today, Aramis! How many times must I say that?!”

He held up his hands as a gesture of peace. “I know, which is why we are leaving early, so we may have the whole day to ride.” 

She hmph'ed, still not impressed.

Aramis gathered the supplies quickly and efficiently, while Constance watched from the sidelines. Once everything was packed, Aramis said, “One more thing. I need to go up to my room and change clothes,” He handed her the traveling bag. “Go down to the stables, and tell the boy there, Henri, that I will be down in a couple minutes.”

She took it. “Change into what?”

“My old uniform.” He grinned, and she couldn't help but grin back.

He dashed up the stairs, eager to put it back on. Aramis reverently walked up to the old trunk, and opened it. And coughed. It wasn't really washed before he had placed it in the trunk, as he was trying to immerse himself in a monk lifestyle. With his nose wrinkling, he stripped himself of his robes and started placing the many layers of his uniform back on.

*CONSTANCE*

She walked down to the stables, as Aramis had instructed. 

“Hello!” Constance greeted the young man working in there, just finishing up on Buttercup's saddle. “Are you Henri?”

He turned with a start, “Yes, madame. I presume you are brother Rene's lady friend?”

It took her a moment. “Oh, you mean Aramis! Yes, I am his friend. I'm actually married to one of his brothers.” She glanced down at her empty ring finger, missing its familiar weight more than ever.

Henri stiffened. “Monks don't marry.”

“Hm? Oh, he isn't a Monk. He's a Musketeer.” She changed the topic. “Is Buttercup ready for Aramis and I to head out? He said he'd be down here in a few minutes.”

“The horse is ready, madame.” But you aren't leaving, thought Henri.

Constance smiled. “Good. Thank you.”

“Would you like me to help you up?” Henri asked.

Constance shook her head, “Thank you monsieur, but I think I can manage it myself.”

Henri nodded, clenching his fist, and getting ready to strike. As Constance was hauling herself up, he lashed out, striking her head hard enough for her to lose her balance. When she fell to the ground, Henri grabbed a nearby horseshoe and struck her on the head again, knocking her out. 

ARAMIS

It didn't take him very long to put it back on. He holstered his handgun, and hesitated. Should he, or shouldn't he load up his weapon in church? He shook himself. Better safe than sorry. When he finally had everything situated, he headed downstairs and to the stables. The sight that greeted him was not one that he had foreseen.

Henri had an unconscious Constance almost dangling from the rafters with a noose around her neck, but he hadn't yet kicked the chair out from under her feet. 

Aramis couldn't run fast enough, but still managed to draw his gun. “HEY!”

Henri's head snapped up, and then he dragged the chair out from under her feet.

Shit shit shit shit shit! Aramis mentally cursed. So now when they find d'Artagnan, his wife is going to have a scar on her neck that just so happens to be like the one on Athos' wife's neck.. He's dead, and he knows it. But maybe not...

While still running, he aimed and fired his gun, and hit his target- the rope suspending his friend's body off the ground. Not bad for being fifteen feet away and running.

Constance's limp body collapsed in a boneless heap, and all Aramis could think of now was of Henri. 

Aramis crashed into the stable boy, knocking them both to the ground. The wrestled, but only for three seconds. It was not a fair contest.

About five seconds after that, Aramis had Henri shoved up against a stall. “What's gotten into you, boy?” He snarled. 

Henri whimpered. “I thought that if she were dead you would stay!”

Aramis shoved him back onto the ground. “Well you thought wrong! If she died I would still have to bring her body back to Paris. Now if you know what's good for you, you'll stay down there, and you won't move an inch.” He threatened.

He ran over to a still unconscious Constance and relieved her of the rope still tied around her neck.

That was how the other monks found them- with Constance cradled in Aramis' lap, while he was looking at her head and neck wounds, and Henri laying on the ground, not having moved an inch. 

“What has happened here!” One of them cried. When he didn't get an answer, he said “Brother Rene!”

“Aramis.” Aramis responded. 

“Beg pardon?” The monk asked.

“My name is Aramis.” He glanced up at the gathered Monks, and sighed. “Henri tried to kill my already injured friend to prevent me from leaving.” He explained shortly, turning his attention back to his patient. “Please get him out of my sight before I seriously hurt him.”

“But-” Another monk spluttered.

“Now.” Aramis demanded, his voice taking on a dangerous tone. After a few seconds of complete silence, he declared. “I need to get to Paris, she has no chance of survival here.”

ATHOS

One of the last things the Captain of the Musketeers and his lieutenant expected to see that evening was their old friend riding into the Garrison with a big bundle in his arms. 

Porthos was ecstatic. “Aramis!” They both ran down the steps to greet him.

Aramis had no time for pleasantries. “I need for you to send for a Doctor, right now.” 

“What's the-oh,” Athos said, finally realizing what the bundle in his arms were. 

“Take her- gently.” Aramis stressed as Porthos lifted Constance out of his friends arms. “She has a concussion, a side wound that needs stitching again, and rope burn around her neck.” 

“I've got her, 'Mis, don' worry.” Porthos assured him.

Aramis dismounted, and Athos asked, “What the hell happened?! She was only gone for two days!”

Aramis rubbed a hand across his face. “It's complicated.”


	6. d'Artagnan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan's point of view at last!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING!! Contains scenes of torture, but I don't think that it is too graphic or anything. Here it is! D'Artagnan's first chapter at last (yes, there shall be more). I am switching back to Constance and the 3 Inseparables next chapter, which I still have to write. Sorry this one is a little shorter than the others. As always, please leave a review and let me know what you think. Thanks to Calgarry for beta'ing, as usual.

*D'ARTAGNAN*

How the hell did it all go so wrong? He kept asking himself. What happened?

D'Artagnan could hardly breathe. But he knew that he had to. He also knew that his captors were not nice people. He was being held who knows where, with torture devises sitting casually on a table outside of his cell. He couldn't see the table, but he knew from the brief glimpses he was able to get that it was out there. Just two feet away from them was a guard stationed there all day, and all night, switching shifts when he was either asleep or being tortured for information he wasn't even sure he possessed.

So far, he'd escaped the worst of his punishment. Punishment for a crime he didn't even know he committed.

D'Artagnan was looking through his puffy eyelids at his room, checking, again, for any weaknesses in the bricks. Maybe he could dig himself out... But he knew it was thought in vain. The room he was in was all brick, save for the thick, short wooden door on one of the walls. He couldn't tell you what direction he was facing, how long he'd been missing, or even if he would be alive in ten minutes.

He was laying down on the hard, cold, stone floor, with chains keeping him bolted to the ground, because his captors apparently thought he would be able to escape with a mattress tucked under his arm. Idiots. Apparently they had known a musketeer to do that before. It was probably Aramis. D'Artagnan grinned, then one of his captors appeared, and his smile disappeared.

The captor glared at him. He never spoke, but d'Artagnan assumed that he was Spanish. After all, they were at war with them.

But he had been taken within French boundaries. How the hell did they manage that? Had it been planned well in advance, or was it an opportune moment to kidnap a Musketeer?

With an impatient snap of his captor's fingers, the guard stationed outside of his cell hastily undid the lock. With a small bow, the guard resumed his post, and then the captor's fun began. With one swift motion, he grabbed an unfamiliar, lumpy object off of the cart and entered the cell, motioning for the guard to lock the door behind him.

"Tell me." He spoke two words, and they were the first two words he'd ever said in front of d'Artagnan. He frowned, because he couldn't place the accent.

"I can't tell you what I don't know," d'Artagnan hissed, crouching as far away from him as possible. Most captors had some thug for hire to do their dirty work, but not this one. This one was not afraid to get blood on his hands. Literally.

The captor was back on silent mode, walking carefully around him. He stayed far enough from d'Artagnan so his prisoner couldn't make any sudden moves to try and yank the keys out of his grasp, making a brave attempt at freedom. Some lessons are learned the hardest, and that was one of the first that he had to learn.

The silence broke again. "But you do know, Charles d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan glared at his captor wearily. "How do you know my name?"

His captor didn't answer, but continued to pace just outside of his reach.

D'Artagnan continued to glare at him, waiting for a reply.

"You know. Now tell me," his captor demanded.

"I can't say anything if I don't know the question," d'Artagnan retorted.

His captor walked closer to him, and held out the weapon in his hand. It was a whip that had been sloppily tied up. "Do you know what is special about this whip?" he asked softly, holding it out.

D'Artagnan shook his head, looking down at the ground.

"That is because you aren't looking!" the captor chastised. "Look at it! Look!" He grabbed a fistful of d'Artagnan's hair, yanked his head up, and shoved the whip very close to his face.

D'Artagnan had no choice but to look at it. What he saw almost made him groan aloud.

"Ah, there it is. You see it, yes?" the captor asked. When he didn't get an immediate response, he slapped his prisoner across the head. "Answer me, boy," he sneered.

"Yes," D'Artagnan dutifully muttered.

"Good boy," the captor sneered again. "Now tell me what you see. Use that Musketeer training of yours and talk." Another blow to the head.

D'Artagnan's head was swimming with pain now, but he bit it back. "I see... I see leather," he said, somewhat stupidly.

The captor was not impressed. "Look closer. Here, you can even hold it."

D'Artagnan held out his chained hands, and it was placed into them. The first thing he noticed was the fact that it was not an ordinary whip, it was a square one. He ran his fingers along the length of it, and then took note of small metal...things laced into the leather. He frowned.

"Run your fingers the other direction," the captor encouraged.

D'Artagnan looked up at him, confused, and with slight weariness, but did as he had been told. "Merde!" he cried out softly, looking at his finger, which was now bleeding. They were spikes, only going in one direction- the direction that would be digging into his flesh.

It was taken out of his hands by his captor, who had a pleasant smile on his face, as if he was looking forward to seeing his prisoner's back messed up. So far, d'Artagnan had two black, puffy eyes from a beating a couple hours ago, a concussion, a sprained ankle (from when he had tried to grab the keys and escape), and now, his back was about to be gouged into with a special whip.

"Tell me what you know," the captor asked, still wearing the pleasant smile. But he began unraveling his whip in advance, knowing his prisoner was not going to say anything. 

"Tell you what I know about what?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Everything. Anything and everything."

"About what?" d'Artagnan asked again. "You're going to have to be more specific than that I'm afraid, monsieur."

"Ah!" cried the captor. "You French and your false politeness. I do so grow tired of it, señor d'Artagnan."

"You're Spanish?" d'Artagnan choked out.

"Of course. Where did you think I was from? England?" the captor scoffed.

"I couldn't place your accent, monsieur, that is all. I figured that you were Spanish, since we are war," D'Artagnan reasoned. "It only makes sense. And since our countries are at war, then I suppose you want to know about our force numbers, strengths, weaknesses. You want to know about everything."

"You are more than just a pretty face, señor," his captor said. "You are smart, too. And since you are smart, I assume that you also know which direction this is leading. So why not spare yourself all of the pain and humiliation and give up now?"

"What, you mean tell you what you want to know so you can kill me, and hurt the people I love? Not a chance. You know the difference between France and Spain, monsieur?" When the captor did not reply, d'Artagnan continued with, "French don't sell out their country for empty promises and the promise of a good payday."

His captor's lip curled up in disgust, and he raised the whip. "Forty lashes for you, Musketeer scum. Then we shall see how strong you French men really are." He gave five lashes, then stopped. He continued the process until he was done.

D'Artagnan was thinking, 'think of Constance and Athos and Porthos and Aramis,' over and over again, to keep the pain at bay. He was out before the captor was close to being finished.

*THE CAPTOR*

When the captor was finally done, he looked upon his work, and smiled. He saw the mutilated mess of d'Artagnan's back, and was pleased with his work. The damned Musketeers were too stubborn. It was a shame that the musketeers got to Charles before he did, they would have been great together.

He stepped over d'Artagnan's limp body and knocked on the door in a code, saying that he was done with the prisoner. It was opened hastily, and the guard stepped back with a bow.

"Have someone look after his back," the captor said. "We don't want him dying before we get what we want, now do we? Switch out, I doubt that he will make an attempt to escape for a couple of weeks." He cackled.

The guard bowed again, and scampered off, like a dog heeling from its master.

He curled his lip again in disgust. What he did for the love of his country.


	7. Saving the Patient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance is in critical condition, and Aramis is still mad at his brothers. Oh, and there is a very slimy Doctor that tends to her.

ATHOS  
"Pierre!" he barked, wheeling around to find the musketeer. "Run for Doctor Lemay, quickly."

"Doctor Lemay is dead," Pierre said, confused.

Athos sighed, closing his eyes. What was the new doctor's name? "Alright. Aramis," he addressed his friend, opening his eyes.

Aramis nearly snapped to attention at his tone. "Yes, Athos?"

"Follow Porthos and keep Constance alive. I fear it may be a while before we have a medical professional on site. Not that I don't trust you, but-"

Aramis smiled, and briefly grasped his arm before starting to retreat after Porthos. "I know, Athos.  
I shall keep her alive, but I am in desperate need of help."

"I shall be up in a minute, now go," Athos ordered. He turned towards Pierre. "Fetch the new doctor, then. I don't care what his name is. If he is treating any of the royals, then run for his apprentice. This is of utmost importance," he stressed.

Pierre nodded, and wheeled off.

Athos sighed again, and followed his friend up to the sick bay. When he arrived, he was met with barely controlled chaos.

"Porthos, I need you to press down on the wound! Stanch the blood flow. Athos, thank God! I need you to grab that wet rag and start mopping up the blood. I have to re-sew her wound again. Be mindful of her neck," Aramis warned.

Athos glanced at his friend's neck, and almost physically recoiled at the sight. There was a bright jagged pink line that now adorned Constance's neck, one that he had placed on his wife's neck, and one that wasn't supposed to be on his friends wife's neck.

"What happened? Why does Constance carry the scar of a hangman's noose Aramis?" he asked in a slightly strangled tone of voice.

Aramis was agitated with all of the questions he was receiving. "I need to save her life right now, Athos, Porthos. By all means, ask away when I am not busy. I promise I will answer your questions." When Porthos looked as if he was going to reply, Aramis shot him down. "When we get d'Artagnan back and his wife is dead, how well do you think he will react when he isn't told 

immediately, like brothers are supposed to?" Aramis glared at them, wielding a needle that would soon be covered in blood.

They both looked at him silently, with guilt practically streaming out of their pores.  
Aramis hissed, and then went into commander mode. "Porthos, keep pressing. Make the blood flow stop if you can. Athos, start wiping. The sooner that I get this done, the sooner I may answer your questions, and you may answer mine," he snapped. When he was satisfied with their work, he began sewing.

As soon as he pulled the last stitch through, Pierre and the doctor burst through the door.

"Perfect timing!" Aramis exclaimed. "I'm done." He gave the newcomers a sour look. "Aren't you two able to run? She could have died, and what were you doing, enjoying the lovely Parisian weather in the middle of summertime?"

"Aramis," Athos protested. "Back down. They got here as soon as they could, I'm sure." He spared them a short glance before turning his attention back to Aramis. "Go and rest, the doctor will now take over." That was an order. "If we are to leave to find d'Artagnan before the end of the week we shall have to leave tomorrow. Report to the courtyard before dawn. Prepare for the journey before you retire. "

"What of my room?" Aramis asked. "Has it been given away?"

"No," Porthos said, "we've all been waitin' for ya to return to us. It's just a shame that this was how it happened." He clapped his friend on the shoulder, and they turned to leave.

"I expect to see you before dawn, too, Porthos," Athos added.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Aramis and Porthos stepped out together, with Pierre awkwardly following them out of the room. But for a split second, Athos saw d'Artagnan, instead of Pierre following them out. That was a sight that he might never see again...Athos shook his head to relieve himself of the haunting image.

When the door was firmly shut behind them, Athos turned to the Doctor, who was bent over Madame d'Artagnan, examining her stitches critically. He 'hmmph'ed, apparently not being able to find a fault with them.

"I apologize for my friend's behavior. He has had a rough morning," Athos said. "He is normally pleasant to be around."

"He did these himself?" the doctor asked in a haughty tone.

"Yes," Athos nodded. "He did."

"While I may not approve of his behavior or language towards me, I cannot say a bad word against these stitches."

Athos grinned to himself. "Well, he has had a lot of practice."

The doctor turned towards him. "With you Inseparables, no doubt."

"You've heard about us, then?" Athos questioned, moving to stand next to the doctor. His eyes were searching the pink line across Constance's neck, while the Doctor kept his eyes on the stitches.

The doctor tsked. "Who hasn't? These really are marvellous stitches. Didn't she also receive a head wound?" His gaze started wandering up Constance's body, stopping to look at her chest.

"Yes, I believe that he did. He didn't, however, say anything was wrong with her breasts, so if you don't mind me saying, please continue with your examination of her wounds," Athos instructed in a hard tone of voice. To help with his order, he grabbed a nearby towel and covered up her chest. "I am fairly sure you've seen that her stitches were well crafted. Now you said that people have heard of us? What do they say?"

"Finest swordsmen in Paris. Now how did that happen?" The doctor noticed the damage to her neck. He looked at Athos. "Is this a convicted criminal?" he asked, voice almost raising an octave.

"No, that would be my wife. Constance is not a criminal, she works at Her Majesty Queen Anne's right hand. I do not know how she came across this scar, Aramis has not yet explained."

The doctor spluttered. "Your wife? I beg your pardon, monsieur, but what-"  
"That is not of your concern, doctor. What else have you heard of us?" He changed the subject again.

The doctor gently stroked her neck, at the blossoming bruises. "I can make a remedy for this, if you would like? It will ease the pain, I am sure."

"Aramis is perfectly capable, thank you, monsieur. I think you were about to look at her head?"

The doctor stuttered. "Yes, of course I was. If you could step back?"

Athos obliged, saying, "We are already aware that she is concussed. Is there anything else?"

"I heard that you three Inseparables have become four," the doctor said, almost absentmindedly. He was gently prodding Constance's head, and trying to see her scalp through her thick auburn curls.

"That was almost two years ago. Your information seems a little out of date," Athos said stiffly.  
They were approaching dangerous waters now.

"Where is the fourth? Surely he should be around somewhere." The doctor looked expectantly at the door, as if waiting for d'Artagnan to come bursting through. Athos followed his line of sight and his thoughts, though he knew they were in vain.

"Missing," Athos breathed. "Because I sent him on that damned mission." He had to take a steadying breath. "This is his wife, Constance d'Artagnan, whom you are examining right now."

"Ah. That explains a lot."

Athos looked at him sharply. "How so? What do you mean?"

"Your demeanor, desperate to save her. She means a lot to you."

"Of course she does." Athos said. "I consider her a close friend."

"How close?" the doctor asked, then hesitated slightly. "Intimately close, perhaps?"

Athos reddened. " Of course not. What gave you that idea? Did I not just say that she is married to one of my brothers? I am married already."

"To the convicted criminal?" the doctor glanced back.

"Are you done with your exam, doctor?" Athos asked.

Apparently blind to the Musketeer's rage, the doctor said, "No, I would like to stay longer. It would be best if she were watched over by a medical professional. "

Athos was pissed, "I am sure that Aramis will be more than capable of handling her-"

"Ah, but Monsieur Aramis is leaving, is he not? To find her husband, yes? With you?"

Athos wanted to scream. "Yes, he is. But for the time being, I am sure that you can find that we have her safe and sound. You may take your leave now." Athos extended his arm to the door. "Show yourself out, monsieur. You may come back a maximum of three times a day, to check on her for brief periods of time, always under the gaze of a watchful Musketeer. If she needs medical help, then you may come back later. Good day." He swept from the room, tracked down one of his trusted musketeers and relayed his instructions to him. "Keep an eye on him," Athos muttered as the doctor left the medical wing.

The musketeer nodded. "Yes Captain."

"You are in charge of the Garrison while I am away, understood? Do not make any foolish choices, and if you need any guidance, go to Minister Treville. Understood?"

Again, the Musketeer nodded.

Athos clapped him on the shoulder, right on the pauldron. "Good man." He clunked down the steps, and said, "I want every available Musketeer to the commons in an hour! Do you hear me?"  
A loud chorus of "yes sir's," was heard throughout the Garrison.

What the Musketeers didn't know was that in a secluded location, a couple of days' ride from where they were standing, those same words were being repeated to the missing Inseparable's captor. He now had a new torture method.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for kudos'ing, commenting, bookmarking, viewing. It really means a lot. Thank you to Calgarry for beta'ing. I am going to go ahead and say that I will try to update once a week, because every few days isn't really working for me anymore. Please leave me some feedback!


	8. Regrets & Snark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three inseparables make amends, while d'Artagnan's condition just keeps getting worse.

Aramis’ POV

He was still pissed, of course. Who wouldn’t be? But right now, his concern for his little brother (who had been missing for three weeks, damn him). When he thought about it, damn Athos, and Porthos as well. Damn them all. Except maybe Constance. 

"Aramis! Are you listening to me?" Athos' voice startled him out of his bitter thoughts. 

"Of course," Aramis lied. He was standing at ease in front of Athos, along with 30 other Musketeers, listening to the plan to go and rescue d'Artagnan. 

Athos didn't buy it. "really?"

Aramis nodded, hoping the lie would hold. 

The newly appointed Captain of the Musketeers didn't buy it. He crossed his arms across his chest and slowly walked towards him, almost imitating Treville to the T. "Then what did I just say?" He motioned to a musketeer standing two feet away from him. "What were Jean's assignments with the mission, then?"

"Ah..." Aramis hesitated. "He was supposed to ready the horses and keep watch at night."

Athos surprised him. "Correct."

"Really?" Aramis asked.

Beside him, Porthos almost face palmed. 

"No, Aramis. Those are not Jean's assignments. Jean is to be the leader of the first scouting group to the area where we think d'Artagnan is being held."

Aramis gulped. 

"If you are not even going to bother to be paying attention, then why did you bother coming back?" Athos asked, before turning away to address the crowd again. 

Aramis openly flinched, and looked down in shame. 

Athos continued his job assignments, saying names that Aramis had never heard before. New recruits, he supposed. Merde, how much of his brothers' lives had he missed because of his selfishness? A lot, he supposed. But at the end of the day, it was still his fault. No matter what he did or could do to repent, they would never forgive him, and the thought was breaking his heart. 

"Aramis," Athos called out again. But this time, it was in a gentler tone of voice. Aramis blinked, looking around to see it was just the three of them in the courtyard. Everyone else had disappeared. Then, he looked to his friend. His brother. 

"Athos," He whispered, almost brokenly. "I'm so sorry. It's just been a really long day, and-"

"I understand, Aramis." Athos interrupted him. He put a hand on his shoulder. "I do. I'm sorry I was harsh on you."

Aramis was already shaking his head. "No, brother, it was my fault. I should have been paying attention."

"I think," Porthos interrupted, "that we should stop playin' the blame game here and get some sleep. We need it, if we are gonna leave to find d'Artagnan in the morning."

Athos nodded in agreement, while Aramis smiled woefully. "When did you become the smart one of the group, eh?"

"When you left, d'Artagnan got kidnapped, and Athos has been losing his mind and sanity with worry," Porthos said. 

Together, they started walking up to their separate rooms, before Athos stopped, causing his friends to bump into him. 

"What is it?" Aramis asked. When he received no reply, Porthos tried,

"Athos?"

"It's just... his room." Athos turned around to face them. "His room is the same as it was when he left. Everything is. We didn't even enter it before Constance asked to stay in there..." He trailed away, now thinking about Constance, and her injuries. 

"Athos," Aramis warned, "I know that look. Hell, I DO that look." He put his hand on Athos' shoulder. "It will drive you mad, I promise. Please. Don't think about it right now. Not when d'Artagnan's life is at stake."

Athos gulped, his eyes shining. "You are right, Aramis." Then, he grinned, but it wasn't a happy one. "Experience is sometimes the best teacher, isn't she?"

"I think we all know that," Porthos agreed. 

Aramis looked back at d'Artagnan's room. "What shall we do? Would you like to clean it up a little bit before we leave?"

Athos shook his head, "No, Aramis. Get to bed, we all need the rest." The trio all turned their separate ways, and climbed in their separate beds, waiting until morning till they could finally see their brother again.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

D'Artagnan's POV

In all honesty, he had completely lost track of all time in his little box of hell. Between the new torture methods his captor was coming up with, and all of the drugs in his food and water, it was a wonder he was still alive. But, he was stubborn, as Aramis, Athos, and Porthos were constantly pointing out. The thought of them was enough to bring tears to his eyes now. He missed them, Constance, hell, he even missed Milady and Louis! 

The captor was trying to ‘take it easy’ on him, since they didn’t want him dying before they could get the information that they wanted out of him. So, instead of beating, whipping, or torturing him senseless, they were drugging him up to the high heaven, making him lucid and unable to do anything but groan and lay on the ground. 

With a soft whimper and a loud rattling of his chains, d’Artagnan pushed himself into sitting position, sensing that he needed to look after his body's’ needs. “HEY!” He managed to shout. “A little help here?” He growled when someone finally looked at him. 

“What do you want, Gascon?” The watchguard sneered. 

d’Artagnan had to bite his tongue, “I need to relieve myself, what do you think?” 

The guard groaned. All of them hated doing this for him. “Can’t you wait for thirty more minutes?” 

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth, "If I could, do you really think that I would be asking you this right now?"

The guard tossed the bucket reluctantly in the room. "Get it over with quickly."

After he was done, the guard left with the putrid smelling bucket. Something was definitely wrong with his body... But of course he already knew that. 

A new, unfamiliar person entered the cell. "Get up," The voice commanded. 

"Where are we going?"

"Your little musketeer friends are fast approaching. You think we are just going to let them find you?" 

"Well, it would be appreciated," D'Artagnan muttered, which earned him a whack upside the head with the butt of his gun.

“Get. Up.” They repeated, “and I won’t ask again. So either you stand up willingly, right now, in the state you are currently in, or ya get 10 lashes with your favorite whip and have to stand up. What’ll it be, Musketeer scum?”

Muttering under his breath and scowling at the unfamiliar man, d'Artagnan used the wall, and managed to stand up about halfway, until the chains around his wrists prevented him from rising any further. He gasped, and slid back to the ground. "I cannot stand up anymore with the chains on my wrists." He gasped out from clenched teeth. 

The guard was about to respond, but with d'Artagnan's untimely luck, his main captor appeared, and gave a new order, whispered into the guards ear. With a small salute, he left, leaving d'Artagnan alone with the captor.

"Well, I must admit, Monsieur, you have lasted longer than I thought you were going to. I am impressed, I will give you that." His captor said.

D'Artagnan didn't reply, but merely glared at him in return. 

Seeing that he wasn't about to reply, his captor continued, and started pacing around his cell. "So as I am sure you are aware, you little friends," the captor sneered, "are getting rather close to here. We rather they don't find you, so-"

"Why?" D'Artagnan asked. "More Musketeers to capture, torture, and kill. Why wouldn't you go for that?"

The captor smiled at him. “Oh, little d'Artagnan, how little you understand. Well, if it was a small troop, we wouldn't hesitate, but since it is not, we would not dare."

"Why, are you afraid of what the French can accomplish?" D'Artagnan sneered. For that, he got a whack upside the head. 

"No more questions, boy," the captor said, finally bending down to unhook his captives hands. "It's time to go. Stand." 

Using the wall, and with a lot of struggling, d'Artagnan finally stood up. 

"Before we leave..." the captor said, holding up a tankard that d'Artagnan hadn't noticed before, "Drink it. All of it. Not one last drop." So d'Artagnan drank. The last thing that he remembered before passing out was his captor slamming his face into the brick wall, probably breaking his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for the wait for this chapter!!! I don't really have an excuse besides schoolwork and laziness. I'm not sure when the next one will be up or written either. But thank you to all of you who have given me kudos, views, and/or reviews to help encourage me to finish!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected character returns, while the others are very sassy.

***Athos POV***

 

When Athos woke, he knew that it wasn't even close to dawn, and should be trying to go back to sleep. But he was aware that he wasn't going to be able to. Not in the long run.

 

So he got up, against his internal voices’ advice, got dressed, and started writing a note to the acting Captain. When he was done, Athos walked outside and slide the note underneath the man’s door. Careful not to clunk down the steps, he made his way down to the Garrisons’ kitchen, and ran into three people he never really expected to get along, much less get along quietly. 

 

The only woman of the three turned around to face him, “Hello, dear husband,” Milady DeWinter greeted him in her silky voice. “Long time no see.”

 

Athos walked up to her, and reached up a hand as if to stroke her face, but didn't, leaving his hand hovering an inch above her cheekbone. “Is this a dream?” He asked in a hushed tone, putting his hand down after another second of awkward hovering.

 

Milady shrugged, “Not to my knowledge.”

 

The middle aged man of them cleared his throat awkwardly, as if to remind the pair that others were present. “Hello, Athos,” Treville said, his piercing eyes scanning anxiously over the new Captain’s face. 

 

“I would say you look well, but you really don't,” Milady inserted. “Are you ill?” She put a hand to Athos’ forehead, and he leaned into the comfort of his wife's hand. 

 

“No, I'm just stressed,” he muttered in response. “And tired. And worried to death about d’Artagnan.”

 

His wife ‘hmmed’ in response, “Yes, I heard.”

 

“Can I get ya anything to eat, Captain?” The third asked.

 

“Not right now, Serge, thanks. I might be sick if I eat right now.” Athos finally moved his head off of his wife's hand, and she put it down, studying his face, maybe noticing the new lines that almost looked like they had been there for years, or seeing the spots of grey at his temples. Her eyes danced with questions, but her mouth remained shut in a soft line. She knew she would get her answers eventually, one way or another. 

 

After a few moments of quiet, Athos broke it. “Why are you both here?” He asked, looking back and forth between the two outsiders. “I thought you left for England, and I thought you would need to be at Loius’ side attending to his every need.”

 

Treville answered first, “Louis is fast asleep, but he did ask me how the search for d’Artagnan is going when I saw you next.”

 

Athos sighed, “Brilliantly, clearly.” He spun around, not wanting anyone to see the tears glistening in his eyes.

 

“Captain…” Serge said. “It’s okay to show weaknesses here. No one here will judge you. You think we don’t feel the same way?”

 

“Seconded,” a new voice affirmed. 

 

Treville’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Aramis? Why didn’t you tell me you came back?” 

 

“Because I rode here yesterday in half a day with a very unconscious Constance in my arms, had to save her life twice, and by the time that I actually remembered to pop by and say hello, I was in bed, and my eyes were closing. I’m sorry, Captain,” he finished.

 

“Well, I didn’t even know you were back, Aramis,” Serge inserted, frowning.

 

“And I’m not Captain anymore, that is our dear friend Athos,” Treville said, giving a shadow of a grin.

 

“Right, sorry, Minister,” Aramis smiled, then yawned.

 

“Why are you up?” Athos scolded him. “The sun isn’t even up yet, and you need your sleep if the mission today is going to be successful.”

 

Milady snorted, “Yes, because you are definitely one to talk.”

 

Aramis jumped slightly, “Ah, I did not see you there, Milady. Did I ever properly thank you for getting me out of the prison cell?”

 

She shrugged, “No idea. I don’t really care, nor do I expect it. Now why are you up so early?”

 

“Everyone should be thanked,” Aramis said, looking hurt. “So thank you, for saving my life when I had nothing else to hope for. And to answer your question, monks are usually up around this time, so it’s habit by now.” 

 

“We should be preparing for the trip, then, if we aren’t going back to sleep,” Athos decided, looking resigned. 

 

“Very well, then,” Aramis said, trying and failing not to look pleased whilst bouncing to the balls of his feet.

 

Treville huffed, “You definitely missed us. Get going, I’ll tell Loius of your plans when he finally drags his royal ass awake.”

 

With an inclination of his head, Athos gestured for Aramis to follow.

 

“So do you even know where to go?” Aramis asked as they were leaving.

 

“No, but I have a general idea,” he replied.

 

Aramis halted immediately, and was about to go on an angry rant on how they were going to need more than that if they were to find d’Artagnan when Milady’s voice beat him to it.

 

“You are going to need SO much more than a ‘general idea’ if you really are to find d’Artagnan,” she scoffed, matching their quick pace in order to catch up to where Aramis stood.

 

Athos finally turned, looking back at them, “What do you have?”

 

Milady stopped, “A rumour of a location that has been confirmed by one of my spies working within the compound.”

 

“So it’s not a rumour?”

 

“Probably not,” she shrugged an elegant shoulder. “But who knows? I bought his services with money, I’m sure he’d give up the information for even more.”

 

“Is that why you are here right now?” Athos asked, “to help us out?”

 

“Even after all we’ve been through you still don’t trust me?” She noted with sadness and accusation in her tone.

 

“Even after all we have been through? Yes, there are going to be moments where I do not trust you. You tried to kill me!” Athos exclaimed.

 

“And you didn't?” She challenged. They were now standing nose to nose, each fuming.

 

“Enough!” Aramis said irritably. “Both of you. If we really are to find d’Artagnan, Athos, we are going to need Milady’s help, which is why she showed up, correct?”

 

Milady, still glaring at Athos, nodded, “I know how much d’Artagnan means to you three, so when I heard that he was missing, I did most everything in my power to get him back, which, as you can see, worked out very well,” she bit out.

 

Athos stepped away from Milady, and continued along to his route to the stables.

 

“Now where are you going?” Aramis asked.

 

“Away from you two,” was his only reply.

 

“Athos, don’t be like that,” Aramis pleaded to his friends’ retreating back. 

 

Milady sighed, “You aren’t going to get an answer out of him when he is in one of these moods. I am sorry that I caused this mess.”

 

Aramis bit down a negative remark, and accepted her apology with a nod of his head.

 

***D’ARTAGNAN’S POV****

 

“Get…. up…. Loius… find him.” 

 

D’Artagnan’s hearing was coming back little by little, and in disjointed fragments. He blinked, and was unwillingly forced to his feet. 

 

A pistol was shoved to the side of his head, “Keep your eyes closed boy, if you know what’s good for you.”

 

D’Artagnan muttered something unintelligible in response, swaying on weak legs. 

 

“We're just going to take that as a yes, okay?” His main captor said, somewhere off to his left. “And even if it wasn't,” the pistol came swirling down on his head in a wide arc, causing the musketeer to stumble and fall, “it is now. Stand again, Senior D’Artagnan, least you show the true, weak nature of the French men.” 

 

With his eyes still tightly shut, mostly out of pain than of following actual directions, d’Artagnan stood once more on his shaky legs, refusing to open his mouth in case of being hit again. 

 

A gloved hand caressed his cheek, before smacking it roughly, causing him to spit out blood. “Good boy. You are learning to listen to me. I have grown proud of you. It is such a shame your very minutes are be numbered, however. I think I shall grow to miss these chats.

 

D’Artagnan shuddered, trying to imagine what exactly how he was going to die. When he joined the Musketeers all those years ago, he didn’t imagine having a family or meeting his future wife, he just wanted to belong. Now, however, that he had a family, it hit him that he would be dying away from them, without a chance to say goodbye, and tell them that they were loved.

 

He was sure they already knew, anyways.

 

***PORTHOS’ POV****

 

Porthos woke up scratching and rubbing at his eyes, wondering why the bloody hell he was up before the crack of dawn, before he heard it again. The ruddy banging on the door.

 

“Porthos, get your lazy arse up before I come in and make you get up,” Athos’ voice threatened through the crack. 

 

“M’up.” Porthos mumbled, none too pleased about being awake this early.

 

“Good, be ready to leave in the commons in ten. We ride in fifteen.” Athos replied, before his boots were clunking down the steps three seconds later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for this wait! Believe it or not, it was started as soon as I uploaded the other one, but then I found out just how much I REALLY HATED chemistry, so that and my newfound obsession with Pentatonix (an a capella band from the US) took up my time. Thank you for all the kudos and reviews, and, as you should know by now, a new chapter is not guaranteed very soon at all, but I will work on it. Thank you so much for sticking with me this long! I PROMISE the next chapter will have some action in it.


	10. Giving up Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt begins...

*Athos’ POV*

“Bring him home to me, Athos,” Constance hoarsely whispered to him. “Even if he isn’t here anymore, bring him home.” 

Athos bent down and kissed her cheek. “I swear to you I will do my best, Madame. I swear on my life.”

Constance sighed, murmured something unintelligible and started coughing harshly, splotches of blood appearing on her chin and lips. 

Athos ran out of the room to get the physician, and started spitting orders at him as soon as they were in the room. “You are to stay in here until you are relieved from duty by another doctor or if the King needs you. Those are your only exceptions. Her wellbeing is of utmost importance. If she dies by your hands I will make sure it is impossible for you to get another job in Paris for as long as I live. Tell the others the same.” 

The physician nodded, slightly terrified. 

“Athos,” Aramis called out, “we ride in five, get down here!”

"I’m coming,” he called back. 

When he arrived at the bottom of the steps, Porthos roared out to the small band of musketeers, “Let’s head out, men!” 

“And woman!” Milady protested, moving her horse next to Athos’, on the point.

Athos rolled his eyes, but cast his eyes up to Constance's room, “Let’s go bring him home.”

*Aramis’ POV, 6 hours later*

“So where exactly are we going?” 

Porthos maneuvered his horse next to his, “Milady has an inside source who gave her a pretty big tip off from what I heard.”

Aramis nodded knowingly, and the pair looked at the couple leading the small band of rescuers. “She’s good at getting inside knowledge, hopefully this source is being truthful.”

Porthos hmmed in response, and they sat in a heavy awkward silence for a few more minutes until Aramis couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What, that d’Artagnan is missin’?” Porthos was looking straight ahead, avoiding any chance of having any eye contact with his friend.

“No, that I’m pregnant. Yes, that d’Artagnan is missing.”

“Look, we were literally on the front lines of the battles. For three and a half years. We got back home six months ago, and he went missing three weeks ago. We were hoping to find him within the first week, but-”

“But that didn’t happen, yeah, I know. I get it. Don’t worry about Aramis, he’s safe, all nice and tucked away in his monastery, don’t worry about telling him their youngest is missing. DON’T BOTHER TELLING HIM HE MIGHT BE DEAD!” Aramis yelled, panting and glaring at Porthos.

“ARAMIS!” Athos yelled, turning around in his saddle to face him. “That’s enough. We’ve already said we’re sorry. We-”

“Stop. Just stop. Please.” His voice broke. “I am tired of excuses and empty reasons. Maybe I could have helped, maybe I couldn’t, but I would have liked to know. Does that sound the least bit unreasonable to you?”

“Of course not,” Milady inserted. “But by all means, you boys keep shouting. We are finally ten minutes away, the Spanish are bound to have guards patrolling the perimeter. If he’s still alive, I’m sure they would love an excuse to slit his throat, leaving his body all nice and warm for you to find. Now, if you really want to see him again, shut up and dismount. We go the rest on foot.”

The boys obeyed, tying their horses out of sight next to a nearby stream. When he glanced up, Aramis saw the tiptop part of a prison abandoned many years ago. 

Getting into the prison was the easy part, as far as Aramis was concerned. There was no one in it. Or around. All the doors were unlocked, and everything was a mess. 

“Well, at least we know Milady’s source wasn’t entirely inaccurate.” Porthos said, after exploring for a good hour. 

“How so?” Someone asked. 

Aramis felt his whole body go cold, “Porthos… no.’’ He whispered.

Porthos looked at him, and held out his hand, motioning for him to enter the room he had just exited. “I think I found him.’’

Athos beat him to the doorway, face ashen and gray. The three inseparables looked in the tiny chamber where their d’Artagnan had been kept. All that remained now was a semi charred body, with matted dark hair and the King’s uniform with his fleur de lis on the shoulder.

Aramis let out a sob, crumpling to the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*D'artagnan's POV*

When his vision came back, it was blurry. He was tied up from head to toe to what he assumed was a large beam, but at least he was vertical this time. It meant that at the very least his head wasn’t going to get dunked into a bucket full of piss again. 

Blink. 

Inhale. 

Repeat. 

After a few minutes of following this tedious mantra, his vision cleared, and d’Artagnan realized he was alone in a very dark, large, and foul smelling room. This definitely wasn’t bringing back bad memories at all. But even when he had no hope then, he knew where he was. He knew where his brothers were. 

This time he had no hope. He had given it all up. With no one in sight, he slumped against the beam and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all so much for reading this chapter and this story. I realize that I have a lot to apologize for. First off, the time wait for this chapter. I honestly meant to update this… last year? I could make excuses, but they wouldn't be very good. My favorite motivation is reviews, especially ones a while after this is updated. It reminds me that this story really does still exist. So KEEP BUGGING ME, PLEASE!!! Next apology, I promised action in this chapter. I will get to that next time, I swear. I thought it best to leave it on a cliffhanger for you guys. I’m also sorry this is so short. Once again, thank you guys for everything, and I’m sorry you will probably have to re read the whole story to remember what it’s about. All mistakes are all mine.


	11. The same fleur-de-lis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stage one- denial

*Porthos’ POV*

All he could think was about how this couldn’t be happening. Not to them. Not to the Inseparables. They were survivors. They had narrow escapes, but never misses. Not until now, anyways.   
Porthos put up a cold exterior, because someone had to take care of them. He felt numb. He wishes this was a dream. 

Porthos looked down at Aramis, curled into a ball close to d’Artagnan’s head, whispering to himself in Spanish and curling his fingers through his hair, tears running down his cheeks.

He looked beside him to Athos, whose face wasn’t supposed to be that shade of gray. Whose face wasn’t supposed to show grief like that. Whose body wasn’t supposed to be heaving with silent sobs. 

He looked to Milady, and all the other Musketeers that had come with them to bring d’Artagnan home alive. He didn’t want to see the other Musketeers take their hats off to honor their fallen comrade. Their brother. He didn’t want to see Milady stand that still with such a blank expression on her face, eyes flickering slowly between her estranged husband and d’Artagnan’s dead body.

Porthos interpreted all of this numbly, because he couldn’t be weak. Someone had to take care of them. 

He blinked the tears out of his eyes, letting them fall to the ground before roughly pushing his way out of the room. He chose to block out Athos calling his name, begging him to come back. 

Porthos ran. If he ran far enough, d’Artagnan wouldn’t be dead. If he ran far enough, he never would have opened the door. 

He found stairs. Stairs were good. 

He ran up. They hadn’t looked up here yet. Maybe d’Artagnan was up here, badly hurt and in need of medical assistance. Maybe he was up here, and would be so grateful that Porthos has finally found him. ‘There you are,’ he’d say. ‘What took you so long? I’ve been waiting.’ And Porthos would pull him into the tightest hug he’d ever given anyone before. And then, d’Artagnan would ask ‘How’s Constance? Is she okay?’ And Porthos would reply, ‘No, she’s hurt, but she’ll be so much better when she finds out you’re alive.’ And then-

And then Porthos heard footsteps behind him. So he growled out, “Leave me alone, Athos.”

“No.” That word sounded broken. Athos did not sound broken. Not ever. Porthos stopped running.

“Please,” he begged.

The word came again, “No.” He pulled Porthos into a hug, and the dam broke.

*d’Artagnan’s POV*

D’Artagnan woke up peacefully. He wasn’t slapped awake. Wasn’t whipped or kicked awake. It was nice, until he realized why he woke up. He was sweating and shivering. 

His wounds were infected. 

His back was searing against the splintery wood. His broken foot was throbbing trying to support his weight. And his head…. Felt like a horse had used it for his last meal, spitting it out when he discovered d'Artagnan didn’t taste good. 

After a few seconds of staying awake, panting and straining, he realized his captor was standing directly in front of him, about five feet away, and his mouth was moving.

D’Artagnan couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t hear anything, not even the sound of his own breath. He opened his mouth and said “I can’t hear you. I can’t hear anything.”

In response to that, his captor took a candle and held it up to his own face, so d’Artagnan could read his lips. All he could make out was “Coming for you…. Starvation… Useless Musketeer… War.” Satisfied, the captor turned on his heels and marched away, opening and closing the door behind him. 

D’Artagnan strained against his bonds and tried to blink sweat out of his eyes. Being deaf wasn’t entirely new. He’s been temporarily deaf before, maybe this was also for a short period of time.

And what did he mean by starvation? Did that mean they were done with him? Were they not coming back? In a way, he was glad. It meant no more torture. He might even be able to die semi peacefully, for a Musketeer. 

 

*Aramis’ POV*

He wanted revenge. Aramis was ashamed that that was the first thing that he thought. 

Porthos ran off, Athos followed him, and no one else dared to come close to d’Artagnan’s body when Aramis was this close. He had stopped crying a few minutes ago, and Porthos and Athos still weren’t back. 

Where were they?

Aramis looked down at d’Artagnan’s fleur-de-lis, the one that he had so proudly earned. Even charred, Aramis recognized the familiar pattern. He let his eyes wander on his friend, trying to find something, anything, that could prove that this wasn’t d’Artagnan. He couldn’t find anything. The height matched, the hair was present, and his uniform....

He wanted for this to be a dream. 

After a few minutes of searching, nothing he could think of could disprove his theory- d’Artagnan really was dead. 

Porthos and Aramis came back shortly after, both sets of eyes puffy and red. “What do we do now?”

“Constance asked for the body back,” Athos whispered. “Should we…?”

Milady hesitantly walked in, “I think you should. He served honorably, and never wavered from his duty. He deserves a proper burial, instead of being left here to rot.”

The three of them nodded, “It’s decided.”

Aramis cleared his throat, “Not to ask the awkward question, but how do we transport a mostly charred body six hours away without further damaging him? We can’t just carry him in a sac.”

“We’ll make a makeshift casket, or look for one lying around and take shifts between two men carrying it. It’ll take awhile but it’ll get done. We’ll bring him home,” Athos said.

*Treville’s POV, the Palace*

“Excuse me, sire, I have a note from Captain Athos of the Musketeers.”

Both the King and the Queen were present. “Say it,” the King commanded.

The messenger took a deep breath before looking at Treville nervously, and Treville felt his knees weaken. 

“Say it! I won’t ask again,” Louis snapped.

“Peace, sire,” Anne whispered, blood draining from her face. She nodded encouragingly at the boy.

“They found d’Artagnan, your Majesties.”

“Oh that is wonderful news! I can’t wait to hear from him aga-” Louis started.

“He’s dead.” 

Treville’s world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT?! 2 chapters in 2 days?! Seriously? Yes, seriously. But ya'll probably know what comes next- no updates for a few months. HOWEVER, I will try to break out of that habit and write some everyday so ya'll can read more sooner. Remember to bug me! Thank you to all the reviewers, kudos-ers, and follow/favorite-rs.


	12. Open your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no more pretending for the Musketeers.

Athos’ POV

He stared blankly at the piece of paper. He didn’t want to sign it. Because if he did, d'Artagnan really would be dead. Officially. No more games. No more pretending. 

With a heavy sigh, Athos stood up and pushed himself away from his desk, lightheaded, and went to prop himself against the window. Had he eaten anything since they had found him? No. That had been a day ago, at least. Athos had spent the last few hours since they got back sitting at his desk, keeping the door locked to keep everyone else out, including Porthos, Aramis, and Milady. If they really wanted to, they knew where the spare key was, and they could get in. Or they could just break the lock. 

Athos pushed off from the window. Apparently they really wanted to. The remaining Inseparables stood in the doorway. 

Porthos spoke first, “We need to tell Constance.”

Athos tried to moisten his dry, cracked lips. It didn’t work. “The King and Queen didn’t tell her?”

“No,” Aramis croaked. “They wanted one of us to tell her.”

“Fine. I need water first. And food. We all do. Then we tell her.”

“Let’s ride in ten. I’d hate her to be left out of knowing crucial information for an extended period of time,” Aramis growled. 

Porthos started shaking, “Stop. Please. You’re still upset, and I get that. You still have every right to be,” He gently grabbed Aramis’ shoulder and turned him so they were looking eye to eye, “but we are all hurting right now, ‘Mis. We are all missing him, and we are all regretting not going sooner. We are all regretting not telling you sooner. So please, please stop. It’s going to take years, decades, possibly the rest of our lives, for this to heal. It probably never will heal. But this is a point in time where we need to be drawn closer together, not torn farther apart.”

Aramis shrugged off Porthos’ hand, his demon taking hold of him. “You’re telling me about loss?” He whispered. “Me? Are you serious?” He shook his head, backing out of the room. “You guys tell Constance. I’m out. Come find me when you’ve come to your senses.”

Athos watched him walk away, mouth agape. That couldn’t have just happened. 

Pothos eventually moved, heading for the door. “Well, let’s go tell Constance.” 

“Are we not going to talk about that? Aramis just went out and left us! We aren’t-”

 

“No, we aren’t going after him. He’s rightfully angry. But you know Aramis. He’ll come around eventually. I mean, he just got back. He’ll come back to us,” Porthos said, trying to sound confident and nonchalant, while trying to hide his quivering lips and worried brow. “Now c’mon, let’s grab a quick bite and see Constance.”

Athos nodded, regarding Porthos with curious eyes.

Aramis’ POV

So Porthos thinks he is being so sweet and kind, telling me about loss? Aramis’ inner voice sighed. He’s too late for that. I’ve been dealing with loss longer than him. I’ve dealt with loss worse than him. He knows nothing. 

The rational part of Aramis’ mind was trying to tell him he was overreacting. Porthos was only trying to help. The rest of his mind was filled with grotesque pictures of Savoy, Lady Marguerite, all the others he has failed to save… and now d’Artagnan was added to the list of dead broken bodies in front him.

He roughly shoved his way through the grumbling new recruits and out of the Garrison, feeling hurt and numb at the same time with no idea where he was going or a particular destination in mind. 

Aramis wandered the same Parisian streets that he had longed to walk on for years. He had imagined a happier time when he finally returned, one where he wasn’t planning a funeral for someone that he very much cared about. Just goes to show how much he really missed. 

A raw, brutal sound was ripping its way through Aramis’ throat; it took him a few moments to realise it was a laugh. It took him a few more moments to realise that he was being stared at like an absolute lunatic. He stopped suddenly, and turned into his favorite cavern. Perfect. Women and drinking his sorrows away. He’s been dry for far too long. 

Constance’s POV

Her headache could have been subtler, she supposed. And if her side didn’t want to hurt so bad, she’s be really grateful, honestly. But breathing… holy shit. Constance held her breath in an attempt to sooth her throat, if only temporarily. With a painful inhale 30 seconds later, and her headache worse than ever, she gave up. She was hot, thirsty, and in a LOT of pain. She blinked. Where was she? Where was Aramis? Was d’Artagnan back yet?

Constance tried to call out to someone… anyone. “Hello?” But all that came out was a squeak. Was she doomed to die in an overheated room with no one to hear her? Was she to starve to death in here?

Just when she had given up her squeaking, the door opened. But it wasn’t a Musketeer. Through her blurry eyes she couldn’t recognize who it was. 

The person sat next to her bed, and began dabbing her forehead with a damp cloth. Thank God. Constance closed her eyes, too tired to keep them open for any longer. After a few minutes of dabbing her forehead, her saviour gave her some water. 

“Please open your eyes, Constance. I’m back, it’s okay.” She obeyed the familiar voice, and started crying when she saw d’Artagnan sitting above her. 

“Oh, you’re back,” she cried. “Oh thank God! Open the curtains, let me see you. D’Artagnan,” she muttered against his lips. When they had broken apart, she looked at him. Finally. “You look wonderful, nothing’s wrong.” And it was true. Her husband was at the perfect weight, his hair was shining in the sunlight, and his skin was practically glowing. He stroked her face, wedding ring sitting perfectly on his finger.

Her husband laughed at her. “Of course I’m fine, Constance! Why wouldn't I be?” After a few seconds of him staring at her, he shook his head at her, long hair getting windswept from the breeze. “The children miss you. Come home, Constance. Everything will be fine. Come on, just open your eyes. I miss seeing your beautiful green eyes, and your glares, and everything. Just open them. Or respond in some sort of way.”

Porthos’ POV

“Constance? Please open your eyes. Come home, Constance. Everything will be fine. Come on, just open your eyes. I miss seeing your beautiful green eyes, and your glares, and everything. Just open them. Or respond in some sort of way,” Athos begged, out of breath but very much present.

Porthos stood next to him, and handed his friend the rag that he had used to mop at his friends face. “Come on, hang in there. Don’t die. You can’t; I’m not losing you too.” He muttered, also panting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI AGAIN! See, I updated again before next year! ;) Anyways, as I was writing the end, I realized it was confusing about the bit with Constance. She was hallucinating d'Artagnan, and putting him in Athos' place. Thank you for the support you all have given me! Don't forget to review and kudos! Thank you!


	13. All Hope Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan is dead??

((D’Artagnan’s POV))

D'artagnan opened his eyes. How long had he been out? It couldn’t have been too long, right? Squeezing his eyes shut for a minute, he tried to get his bearings. Breathing shallowly, he tried to recount the events that had led him here through his terrible thirst and pounding headache.

First, Athos had sent him on a mission. But a mission to do what? Something for the King. 

Next, he had woken up in a cell and was beaten up by his Spanish captors men-for-hire. D’artagnan still had every scratch, scrape, and bump they had inflicted on him. And apparently his friends had been close to finding him, which is why he was moved. 

It had become apparent that he was no longer needed. So was the war over? Who won? 

He had decided that he didn’t care. He was dying anyhow, and for what? A spoiled brat of a King who blamed him whenever things went wrong? A loving family who wouldn’t leave him him? Well, where were they? Didn’t they even care he was gone? Or that he was on his deathbed? 

Well, what about Constance? The woman who had lost and willingly given up so much for him? What about her? 

‘Well, what about her?’ He asked himself. ‘She’s a beautiful woman, she can have anyone she pleases and sets her mind to. Handmaiden to the Queen herself, she’ll have suitors lined around the block for her.’

And your brothers?

‘Are nowhere to be seen or heard of. Unkind, uncaring, unfaithful. They don’t care about you’, his voice whispered in his ear. ‘It’s strange how you honestly thought that they did. You’re unlovable. You’re needy. And absolutely shitty with a sword. Unlovable, unlikable, useless, unlovable, unlikable, useless’ his voice chanted.

D’Artagnan wanted a drink. Maybe he could drink enough alcohol to poison himself, and then dying would be less painful. Or would he not able to fall asleep, and die of thirst?

Screw dying of thirst, his infected wounds would kill him first. Maybe he could reopen them and bleed out? Would that be less painful? Or more? 

He kept drifting in and out of a painful sleep, still hunched over on the splintery beam. 

 

((Treville’s POV))

He was standing in the corner of the room when Athos and Porthos came in, still light headed from his encounter with the palace floor. He was even getting a goose egg as a trophy. 

Congratulations Treville, you survived your encounter with gravity while d’Artagnan didn’t survive a simple mission. He would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so grim.

He was trying to look anywhere but the two Musketeers who were addressing the King and Queen. For his part in it, Louis had actually cried when he was told the news. It wasn’t a ‘oh no a pet had died’, but a genuine, ‘a friend had died’ kind of cry. Treville was proud; it seemed like a ruler had actually appeared, and the petulant child had disappeared for a moment. Anne, on the other hand, had not. She was in shock, as far as Treville could tell. She hadn’t yet moved a muscle since being told. It wasn’t like she didn’t care- she had known d’Artagnan better than Louis ever had and ever will- or would. It was hard to think of him in past tense.

Finally, he looked up at Athos. He had never looked so old before. Every gray hair was accentuated, and the lines on his face looked deeper. His hair was a mangled, greasy mess and his hands were calloused and bleeding from his turn of carrying d’Artagnan’s casket back home. 

Treville was used to seeing soldiers die; it had come with the job. But it never got any easier, no matter the circumstance. Death was death, a soldier was a soldier, a bullet was a bullet, and a grave was a grave. There was no changing it, no matter how hard he would like to.

Porthos looked very similar to his friend, except his face was set in an ‘I’m actually about to cry touch me and you lose a hand’ expression. Treville knew this face, but it was rare that it was ever shown. Last time it had surfaced, his father had lied to him, and everyone knew that didn’t end well for anyone involved, including himself.

Frowning, Treville remembered Aramis. He looked around the room, thinking maybe he had missed him. But… no Aramis. His eyes drifted to Anne, the statue-like Queen of France. Maybe he is waiting outside the doors, not wanting to upset Her Majesty even further. 

Drifting off, he allowed Athos’ heavy voice to wash over him like a wave. He didn’t see the Brothers-in-Arms handing over d’Artagnan’s official death certificate to Louis, who accepted it with trembling hands and tears cascading down his face. He didn’t hear them approach him, but jumped at the gentle touch of Porthos’ hand on his shoulder. “What?”

“Hey,” Porthos responded. “I’m sorry.”

Treville wanted to tell him it’s not his fault, that there’s nothing he could have done. All that came out was a low grunt.

“We are about to check in on Constance. She was pretty bad off earlier, but she’s stable now. You want to come?” Athos whispered.

He nodded, and without bowing to the King and Queen, left their presence. As soon as they were out of the doorway, he glanced around for Aramis. 

Porthos, seeing this, bitterly remarked “Aramis is in a mood. He left the Garrison earlier in a fit. We don’t know where he went or if he’s comin’ back. Good fucking riddance, I say.”

“How can you say that?” Athos whispered. “He’s our brother.”

“Yeah, but ‘e went up an’ left us when we needed ‘im. We needed ‘im. Still do, an’ where is he? We need ‘im, Constance needs ‘im, and d’Artagnan needs ‘im.”

“D’Artagnan is dead.” Treville said, his voice curiously flat. “D’Artagnan needs no one because he is dead. He’s dead and we need to focus on the living. Like Constance and Aramis. Focus on them.”

Finally, they reached the room where Constance was being taken care of. The first thing he noticed was that there were an alarming amount of people surrounding the four-poster bed in the middle of the room. Turning to the other two, he asked, “What’s going on?”

“She’s been poisoned, as far as we can tell. The delirium plus her wounds isn’t a good combo,” Athos answered. “We’ve almost lost her several times. Let us through,” he commanded to the guards stationed around her bed.

“Poison doesn’t warrant an assassination attempt through the window though, does it?” Treville asked, approaching the side of the bed. He pulled the curtains aside to reveal a sickly Constance, bathed in sweat and mumbling nonsense in her sleep.

“Her wounds are infected. Left untreated she is going to die. Her and d’Artagnan in the same week? You really want to go there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I’m really sorry about the wait. While I have had time to write this in the past, I just chose not to. Last update was a few days before my High School graduation, and as of right now, I have officially finished my first semester in college. Sorry, again, about the wait. If there are any major discrepancies, please let me know. Please review, they will make me write faster! Thanks for the kudos/favorites!


	14. The Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh Aramis...

**Aramis’ POV**

When he woke up, the first thing he was aware of was the blond hair, and last time he checked, Aramis did not have blond hair. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to remember what had happened. Had he been drinking? Was he drunk? 

His headache said yes. 

Almost three years without getting shit-faced drunk will make your first time back hell, as he was figuring out. 

Now, to answer a more important question- where was he? Aramis opened his eyes again, and saw the blond hair again. It was almost blinding, really, in the morning sun filtering through the small cracked window. He gently sat up, careful to not wake the woman, and looked closely at her. The hair, light blonde, was long, Aramis could see. It looked about waist length, and her face… youthful, and full of life. His gaze wandered around her, trying to see if he was able to recall anything at all of the previous night. 

His eyes settled upon something on something gold and glistening on her ring finger. Aramis’ eyes widened with horror. The old Aramis bragged about how many married women he was able to sleep with. The newly reformed Monk Aramis wasn’t ready to get back into that old lifestyle just yet. Somewhere in the building, a door slammed shut, and a man’s voice was calling through,

“Evette? Are you awake, yet, darling?” with approaching footsteps.

The woman beside him, Evette, stirred slightly, and muttered something. The footsteps were getting closer, and Aramis was in bed, naked, with this beautiful young woman, who was very married. 

Shit. 

Frantically, he quietly hopped out of the bed, and tried to think of what to do. He was too big to jump through the tiny window, the bed was too low for him to crawl under, and no closet. Well, he was screwed. 

The door behind him opened, and the homeowner walked in to see a very naked man standing over his wife. “Who the HELL are you?”

Aramis turned around, looking guilty. “Um.. that is a good question. You see, I’ve got amnesia, I’m not even sure where I am right now.”

Evette finally woke up after hearing her husband’s loud voice. “Oh no.”

“What is this?” her husband demanded.

Aramis and Evette’s eyes met, both had guilt in their eyes. 

“I… Um… I’ll just be going, alright?” Aramis said, and bent down awkwardly to collect his pants, slightly swaying. 

“No, you bloody well will not just be going! I want answers!” the man said. 

“Please, Jean,” Evette pleaded, “It was my fault. All mine.”

Aramis quickly pulled up his pants and scooped up his shirt just as fast. He looked around again, trying to do a last minute sweep of the room, looking for anything he might have forgotten. Armor? Apparently he left that somewhere that was not here. The Garrison, maybe? He hoped so. 

A hand came down on his shoulder, “Where do you think you are going, Monsieur? Out?After this?”

“Why, yes,” Aramis responded, turning around and decking him. Jean stumbled back, but didn’t fall. Good enough for him. While he was disoriented, Aramis shoved his way past him, leaving Evette to deal with him all by herself. Usually he wouldn’t have, but something told Aramis Jean wouldn’t hurt her. Or at least he hoped not. 

Out in the streets, Aramis started running, disappearing in the sunlight and the morning crowds.

He had something to tell Athos. 

**Anne’s POV**

Anne blinked her dry eyes. Took in a deep breath. Let it out. Blink. Inhale. Exhale. Every once in a while, she would grasp the armrests and squeeze them tightly, trying to ground herself. She’s seen death before, sure. She’s known Musketeers that have died in her service before. That was not new.

She had never actually befriended one before. 

Not genuinely, at least. 

Anne looked over at Louis, who was openly weeping. What was she supposed to do? Comfort him? Wrap her arms around him, whisper sweet lies in his ear about how this was going to be alright? How d’Artagnan wasn’t really dead? 

Now that was cruel.

Instead of doing anything helpful, she just stared. What was there to do? 

**Athos’ POV**

“Get me that rag, quickly. She’s overheating.”

Porthos quickly handed him the wet rag, while stripping Constance’s bedsheets away from her sweat-soaked body. “She’s dying, isn’t she? Do you think she knows about ‘im? The truth?”

“Of course not, she thought I was him a few hours ago,” Athos snapped. “Help me, dammit.”

“I don’t know what we could do to help!” Porthos said, desperation tinging his voice. 

“I’ve got an idea,” a familiar voice said. The two men turned towards Aramis. 

“You came back,” they said together. 

“Yes, I did. I’m drunk, but here.” Aramis responded. “First off, take down the bed curtains, or at least open them as far as you can. You,” he instructed a bystander, “open the windows. Wide as you can. Then, fetch me a scalpel and a bowl.” 

With the windows open, a breeze began to blow through, giving them some fresh air. Once he had the scalpel, Aramis made a slight cut on Constance. “This should help.”

“You came back to us,” Porthos said.

“I did,” Aramis responded, “and I almost got the shit beaten out of me this morning. Fun times.” 

“Well, that’s typical,” Athos snorted. “Welcome home.” 

“Thank you. Give me a rag, needle, and thread now.” Aramis said. The three sat in silence for a few minutes while he worked, the breeze from the window relaxing them in the moment. 

Finally, Aramis broke it again. “Has she had any water?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Porthos responded. 

“No offense, but did you two lose any brain cells after I left? Who’s been the primary caregiver? Surely a physician of some kind?” Aramis mocked.

“He’s been in and out. With the outbreaks of virus’ and diseases in the palace he’s been concerned with making sure nothing has reached the King, Queen, or Dauphin. A commoner, no matter their standing with the Queen, is not of much concern at all to him,” Treville responded, next to Aramis, who promptly jumped a foot in a the air in surprise. 

“Don’t bother knocking,” he muttered.

“Good to have you back,” Treville squeezed his shoulder. Any sign of happiness was completely gone from his face, leaving an empty shell of what Treville was supposed to look like.

“I wish I could say it was good to be back,” he responded, reaching up to place his hand over his old friends. Looking over at the other two, he said, “We need to prop her up, could you help me?”

After they had Constance practically sitting up against the pillows (“It’ll help her lungs open up easier”), Aramis had one more thing to ask. 

“Did we ever find his wedding ring?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I am so sorry for this wait, (as usual). I kind of have an excuse now, though. You see, my old computer broke, and I lost all progress and old documents I used to have, and some of them were new chapters for this story. PLEASE review and let me know what you thought, I might write quicker! ;) The more details, the better!


	15. What was forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance's condition continues to rapidly deteriorate, and Porthos doesn't like running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a game changer, guys. ;)

**Constance’s POV**

All Constance could do was a short, painful gasp in, and a saccato breath out. All she could see was a mixture of dull colors throughout her vision. Somewhere far away, she felt some sort of pressure on her hands, and forehead; for some reason, her side was absolutely on fire. Did she get injured somehow?

Distantly, she heard a familiar voice say, “We’re losing her. Her condition has only gotten worse.” 

Did she know that voice? And who was the “her” that it was referring to? From the sounds of it, the “her” the familiar voice was speaking of was hurt badly, perhaps even dying. 

Now, why was breathing getting so hard?

“The noose marks on her neck aren’t helping her, I think they are making everything worse,” Aramis said. 

Aramis! She knew Aramis! That was Aramis’ voice. So if that voice is his, then the first voice was Athos. Where was Porthos? And since they were back, where is d’Artagnan? Wasn’t he supposed to come back with them? 

“Can’t you do something?!” A frantic voice screamed. Was that Anne? “She just lost her husband, you can’t lose her too!”

But… 

They were talking about her. She was the one who is dying. And d’Artagnan is dead? D’Artagnan… is dead? Well, that’s not right. They’re wrong. He’s not dead, because she would KNOW if he was dead. She would feel it. 

Constance had officially decided that they were wrong. They missed something, and needed to check again. Because if anyone was able to tell if he was dead, she could. And she could tell that he was not. They were wrong. Besides, they would have told her by now. 

She had to open her eyes, but found that they were too heavy to open.

**Porthos’ POV**  
‘Faster’, he thought. ‘Must run faster.’

As soon as Aramis had asked about the wedding ring, Porthos and Athos knew something was wrong about the whole situation. He tried to rack his brain, was there ever a wedding band on the body they found? What about the gunshot wound in his side from where Athos shot him? 

Did they even check?

No. They didn’t even TRY. D’Artagnan deserved better friends than that. But right now, Porthos had to get to the morgue to check. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He pushed himself harder. 

But why didn’t they try? Had they already given up hope? 

“MOVE!” He yelled at a poor, unassuming Lady waiting to buy eggs. There are more important things in life than when your next meal is going to be. ‘Later,’ Porthos thinks, ‘When d'Artagnan is safe and sound with us again, I am going to deny I ever thought that.’

Two more blocks to go. 

One block. 

Here.

Barging in, Porthos started yelling. “Hey! I need some water, and some assistance!”

The poor mortician came bumbling out. He wasn’t used to hearing people speak. “Hello, may I help you?”

“My name is Porthos, of the King’s Musketeers. We brought in a body two days ago, you know, all burned, wearing leather? Do you still have it? Have you looked at it yet?”

“No Monsieur, I was gettin’ to it next,” he replied. 

“Well look at it now. I’ll even help, if you want,” Porthos said, finally getting some of his breathing under control. 

“Uh… I suppose?” the mortician replied, slightly confused. “Is there something wrong?”

“Possibly. I need to make sure it’s not one of friends.” Porthos said.

“Well, right this way,” the man replied, leading the way back through the dungeon. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Porthos whispered.

“Did you not look at the face?” the man asked. 

Tears lumped up in Porthos’ throat. “We couldn’t… there’s no way... “ Choking back tears, he finally answered clearly. “No. We didn’t feel a need to. It was d’Artagnan’s uniform, but…”

The mortician back off after uncovering the body, “Take all of the time you need.”

Porthos nodded, “Can I take off the clothes?”

“Oui Monsieur.”

Porthos closed his eyes and steered himself for the inevitable. Once he opened them, he bent over the body, closely examining the face. From what he could tell from the black hair (that admittedly was mostly burned off), he found that it matched up to their friends. Well, that doesn’t help. 

Breathing through his nose, he moved down to d’Artagnan’s uniform. He would, and still does, recognize it. Porthos closed his eyes again, and tried to not let the memories of his brother overwhelm him. Don’t think about his laugh, smile, or his old jokes. Don’t think about how how he smiled at Constance on their wedding day, or how excited he was when they could just ride their horses through open pastures all afternoon. Don’t-

Stop it, Porthos!

He opened his eyes, and first checked down on the left hand. No wedding ring. There wasn’t enough skin left on the hand to tell if there was any past indentation of the wedding ring, anyways. So, no help there. 

He finally moved on to the Uniform. Carefully avoiding looking at d’Artagnan’s fleur-de-lis, Porthos gently started undoing the jacket. It was burned, he noted. Leather doesn’t usually burn easily, so whoever this was was burned in it. This was it. Was this d’Artagnan, or a decoy meant to distract them? Was his brother still alive?

After a few minutes of undoing it, Porthos finally got it open. Carefully peeling it back, Porthos opened it up, and started looking at the chest. After several seconds, Porthos ran outside and threw up on the streets. 

After he was done, he went back in to collect d’Artagnan’s fleur-de-lis off of his uniform, thanked the Mortician as he left, and said three words to him.

 

 

 

 

Once he was back in the the same room where Constance lay, and he was surrounded by his brothers, Porthos finally announced, “It’s not him. The body. It’s not him. The wound is missin, and so is the wedding ring. D’Artagnan is alive out there, somewhere, and ‘e needs our help.”

Athos went pale. “You’re sure? You are 100 percent sure, Porthos?”

Porthos looked him dead in the eye and responded, “Sure as I am standin’ in front of ya. D’Artagnan is alive.”

Aramis sat down in a nearby chair, feeling faint. “You don’t know that. The body isn’t his, but he could still be dead.”

“Even so,” Treville said. “You owe it to Constance to bring his wedding ring back, at least. Your search is not over, men. Get off your asses, and bring him home this time.”

Athos looked at the Queen, who said, “You heard the man. Get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all like this one! I SHOULD be updating more frequently, but I might not really. Bugging me helps a lot!


End file.
